Last night I went out for a couple of beers with one of my best friends. La la la, we drink we drink then drink some more. I run into an old friend, we mingle, have a great time.
That's not the point.
Stumbling home, I had a slight *eek* in my bladder. Sure, I gotta pee. But I am a hardy young man of strong constitution. I can hold it.
By the time I was transferring to the G train, I had lost all sympathy for women in labor. I mean, I had a balloon in my stomach that was growing faster by the second. I'm gonna die, I just know it.
Let's not forget that I was piss drunk and very ready to make bad decisions to (pardon the well placed pun) relieve the situation. First I start looking for disposed cups. I swear to God, I will pee in a Solo cup in the middle of the subway. Anything to stop the pain. Truly, my kidneys were spasming. This is how bad it had gotten. I couldn't even sit upright, because my kidneys would have been perpendicular to the Earth and gravity could pull more pee into my bladder. I've got a fucking protractor mentally arranged in my lower back in an attempt to minimize the pee-strain. Desperation.
Waddling around, sweat dripping from my brow, I even contemplated just dropping trou and peeing onto the tracks. Flashes of electrified pee-stream leaping from the third rail to my Oklahoma panhandle quickly brought me to my senses. I had to bite my lip and wait for my stop.
Luckily, I have a pretty accurate, near-photographic, pseudo-Godlike, memory. Fighting my way through the mental barricade of pain, I start pre-planning where I'm going to do my business.
And a big Thank You to the City Park Commission. There is a small park right outside of the subway at my stop. Trouble is, I don't live in an area we would call "safe". Often, there are hoodlums of various gang affiliations hanging out in this very park at this very time, and they would just love to see a scrawny, drunk Matt peeing in their bushes. Fantastic. I'm sure they love raspberry scones.
I have no choice. I've got to chance it. Time is running out. My lower back has shooting pains. I've never gone this long. Sure, we have to hold it sometime, but I'm breaking records right now. I must have had four or five pints in their totality in my tiny tummy. I'm reaching Point Break, and there's no Keanu in sight.
I waddle out of the subway, gripping my lower back to relieve the weight of my biological cargo. I nearly pee myself getting through the turn-rotater thing (I hate those things, as they are the perfect height to smacketh my tackle).
I go up the stairs (Oh God, I'm getting sympathy pains just remembering it). I get to the park.
At that very moment in time, there was only one thing going through my mind:
He was a Dutch astronomer and he had a golden nose (it was lopped off in a sword fight).
That's not the point: He died when his bladder exploded. He was sitting a table with a king and he needed to tinkle. But at that time, one couldn't leave the table unless one asked for the King's permission. I guess TB was a bit bashful that day, and he paid the price for it. The ultimate price. It's good to be the King.
I'm screwed. My kidneys are screaming. They have evolved mouths, airways, and epiglotti and are now capable of screaming.
I get in the park.
I hop a small iron fence (a near Herculean task).
I start peeing.
The pain won't go away.
I'm gonna die in the park, with pee all over me, from a burst kidney.
My obituary will be unprintable.
I made it.
The pain stops.