False Finishes

A couple of days ago I wrote about peeing, the difficulties of writing one's name in the snow. One thing I forgot to mention is that even if my “handwriting” is difficult to control, there is quite a feeling of empowerment.

Think about it: There's 3 feet of snow, enough to stop cars in their tracks, cancel school and work days, freeze pipes (more on that tomorrow) and otherwise cause havoc untold across the land. Yet you, little ol' you (or in my case, not so little), are able to beat back this snow with a thrust, melt it on contact like so many Wicked Witches of the West. Tell me that's not cool.

I'll tell you what isn't cool about peeing: sealing the deal. Being male, I have been able to pee standing up pretty much since I could stand. It's never really been a problem. Early on I learned about “False Finish,” a phenomenon all guys are familiar with. This is when you the stream ends and you think you think you're done, only to be attacked by a last gaps reserve force. Many a male has forgotten about “False Finish,” only to discover almost immediately the problem. (Unlike most customer surveys, you pretty much get instant feedback on whether you've put the car into the garage a little too soon. And while I'm on the subject, not a woman here is allowed to go “Ewwwwwwwww!” Know why? 'Cause I've done laundry for you ladies, and no amount of “False Finish” fatalities can come close to comparing to the dastardly discolored discharge you all bring to the party.)

Lately, though, False Finish has not been my only problem. It seems that the older I get (and maybe this is a factor), the less confident I can be that I've really “gotten it all out there.” There I'll be, standing, minding my own business (literally), get through the first act, allow for False Finish, and go through the final little “Shake Shake Shake” dance, only to find, that much like just like a late-night infomercial, there's more!

Where is it all coming from?

It seems like now I have to go through several False Finishes, and sometimes even have to resort to a Cautionary Tissue Wipe . What am I, a chick? (Note: I have no actual idea how girls generally pee, not being one of those types, but if late night stand-up comedians have taught me nothing else, it is that women use roughly a tree and a half to clean up a simple #1. If this is wrong, some brave lass leave the real scoop in the comments, and if it is right, perhaps you'd be so kind as to explain why.)

I've heard this might be something prostate related, which can't be good, seeing as how I'm only 30. I remember having a flat-mate once who was in his 50s, and privately snickering how he had to pee four or five times a night. But dammit if I haven't joined his ranks. Rare is the night (or in my case, early morning, or possibly late afternoon), where a couple of privy pit-stops do not take place. If this is all prostate related, the future does not look bright.



Up next in the Pee Chronicles: What to do when you can't flush

Writing in the Snow

As you may or may not know, if I want to use the Internet I have to go outside (currently -30) and down to a little shack. I'm not allowed inside the shack, but an Ethernet cable comes out. Unfortunately, in this weather, there are more cracks than a plumber convention and thus actually getting on the Internet is quite the ordeal. (For some reason Yahoo IM almost always works, but God help you try to get a browser.)

Anyway, the result is that I sit here for hours. Meanwhile the restrooms are clear at the other end of the camp, and obviously in this weather you don't want to leave a laptop unattended. Thus, I do a lot of squirming, and occasionally, I make use of Mother Nature. (This is more dangerous than it sounds, as there are packs of coyotes very near here. They are generally scared of humans, but quite attracted to urine. Go figure.)

Since we've gotten about 39 feet of snow here I have been able to witness the phenomena known as “name writing.” I think you know what I'm talking about.

Since I'm generally civilized (and more importantly, usually live in warmer climes), I have never really had the opportunity to do this whole calligraphy thing. I thought it might be kind of a lark, but what I noticed was that my “hand-writing” was terrible! My words were more illegible than “Smells like Teen Spirit” and “Louie Louie” combined! Oh the humanity. I have thought about this for several days, but am unable to come to any conclusions as to why.

***

On a completely unrelated note, I got this giant pencil for my birthday last year . It's like this, except mine was red.

My neighbor gave it to me, and she jokingly said I could use it for Sudokus. (This was back when I was quite the fan. Now I find them so easy as to not be worth the effort.) However, the pencil, while funny looking, was almost useless to write with. I think it's because it was so big and so long. When you get something that big and long it becomes very difficult to control the writing flow, and you're left with gibberish. Nice idea, but I guess that's why giant pencils have never caught on to write with.

The Sins of Tyler Brayton

Okay, so I have no TV up here in Outlaw Camp, but I was on a trip to the restroom (which entails a 10 minute car ride) and I had the radio on, and heard an Oakland Raider (Tyler Brayton) knee Jeremy Stevens in the groin. Well, I didn't hear the actual knee, but I heard the announcers talk about it.

Here is the video:





Later, on another trip down the hill (had popcorn the night before), I was listening to ESPN radio and the girl hosting the show (didn't catch her name) talked about how every guy in the studio had a "hit in the groin" story.

Here's mine.

Once my mother was complaining about how childbirth was the worst pain ever.

"Mom, you don't know what you're talking about. Childbirth isn't the worst pain ever. Getting hit in the groin with a frozen Snickers bar is the worst pain ever."

"Spoken like a true male." (Women love to lord that over you, don't they?)

"Mom, let me ask you something. How many kids do you have?"

"Four."

"And after you had me, did you want to have more children?"

"Of course."

"Mom, I NEVER want to get hit in the groin with a frozen Snickers bar again."

QED

Z-Mart

There is a certain kind of Entertainment that goes far beyond the now-cliche “Guilty Pleasure.” I'm tentatively calling it “Zima Art” or “Z-Mart.”

Back when I worked at Delta airlines Zima was real big on the scene. Yet, everyone I worked with—to a man—trashed the drink as unpalatable, and more than a few implications that quaffing said beverage could possibly start a journey down the Trans-Gender highway. Not being a drinking man myself I had no knowledge of such things, but it seemed impossible that Zima could be so popular when everyone seemed to loathe it so.

Finally, in a week moment, my friend Adam admitted to me that Zima actually tasted pretty good. “The thing is,” Adam confided, “no man can willingly go into a liquor store to buy a six pack of Zima. So, what you have to do is something along the lines of, 'Yeah, I'll take a bottle of Vodka, some J-D, a 40 of 8-Ball, and uh, a six pack of Zima, for the wife, ya know!'”

I realized that for many, Zima fit into that class of art that people needed to make excuses to enjoy, because they felt ashamed to admit they liked it. At various times such items in the Z-Mart shopping cart have included: NSYNC, Sex and the City (for men), Harry Potter (before blew up and became okay for adults to admit they loved), Michael Bolton, Jerry Springer, Reader's Digest and The Olive Garden.

Can you think of others?