For The Gentlemen I: The Gentleman's Morning Piss

Gentlemen, let me start of by getting something out of the way: Boobies. There. It’s been said and it’s on the table. Just take a moment and chuckle quietly to yourself.…..Done? Good. Now, on to business. If you’re like me there are times throughout your day when your male mind just wanders off without telling you where he's going, much like an A.D.D five year old at six flags. During these carefree romps through the trash filled walkways of an overrated amusement park that is the male consciousness, he happens upon things so wild and unimaginable, that no one besides another gentleman would ever understand or appreciate it.

For instance: "If women are such good fashion designers, and gay gentlemen are such good fashion designers, then why aren't lesbians some type of super designer?" Now some people say that the two factors cancel each other out, but I disagree. However, that’s a discussion for another day. My main example here is that of the morning pee.

The male morning pee is as predictable as the sunrise, as ever present as gravity, and as necessary as a meth lab is to a trailer park (if you live in a trailer park and are offended by the last comment, don't be. It’s there; you just aren't tweaking hard enough to sense it). But it’s not just the morning constitution itself that has me so intrigued. It’s that every two or three months you take a pee so long that after you finish, you immediately regret not timing it.

This is one of those rare moments that is both reminiscent of why life is worth living and soul crushingly depressing. It begins with the immense pride you feel for your magnificent piss. “Damn,” you think to yourself smugly, “That was one hell of a piss……. probably should have timed it.” You do your best to ignore that last thought, but it festers. It begins tearing its way through your mind like an abominable little demon of anxiety and regret. You then begin to remember other really long pees that you’ve taken and speculate if this one was longer. But how will you know? You didn’t time any of them. You will just have to go through life always wondering about the lengths of those majestic pisses, but to no avail. You will never receive your answer. You are condemned to a life of torturous ignorance. You. Will. Never. Know. This titanic meteor of reality comes crashing down upon you and smites you to the floor. "But….. how could I have known that it was going be a urination of Olympic proportions?" you tearfully ask the shower curtain. However, the shower curtain in its stoic passivity doesn't answer. "ANSWER ME!" you scream at the towel rack, but something as wise as the towel rack knows when to hold its tongue.

So, lost in the solemn silence of your bathroom at six in the morning as you cry yourself back to sleep on the mat in front of the toilet- completely oblivious to the fact that yesterday you gravely miscalculated you starting trajectory and totally soaked that mat- you find the answer: Pickles. It’s not a very informative or helpful answer, but it’s an answer nonetheless. And so, as you uncurl from the fetal position and climb in to the shower, you are consoled by the one thought that your groggy mind can manage to entertain: "The towel rack saw it; he can back me up……."