TMI Thursday: What, I'm Three Again?

If this does not sate your thirst for awesome TMI stories, then check out all the other glorious tales of things we probably shouldn't tell at LiLu's home for the staunchy raunchy, TMI Thursdays!


You might have heard me mention that I did my graduate studies at the University of Notre Dame. Heard of it? It's a little Catholic institution situated in the midst of the Great Lakes basin. I hear they've won a football game or two? Something like that. Anyway, the coach is involved in some sort of imbroglio here of late, involving something about inept defenses or something. I don't know of these things.

Anyway, whilst a fresh-faced chemist, still hellbent on making the world a better place, one sp3-hybridized orbital at a time, I met an equally fresh-faced (and large-breasted) redheaded lass hellbent on making the world a better place, one Latin declension at a time. We met for some coffee and a little talk, sipped the coffe on the bench outside her dorm, and then parted ways. A few nights later, we met again for some scintillating discussion of middle Gaelic, a lecture which captivated my attention like no other, causing me to cling to the edge of my seat, wondering how that man was going to roll his r's and elide his l's this time. I was so captivated, I believe I snored.

A few months later, we married. A few months after that, she burst forth with child. Roughly a year after that, she left to live with her mother and father while I worked diligently on the final few reactions and molecules and the requisite characterizations of these compounds. Oh, how I adored the HPLC then, my friends.

But this isn't a tale of love between a man and a highly-efficient purification machine. No, this is a story about a trip.

So, my wife and daughter, when she was 11 months old, moved to Charlotte, NC with my mother- and father-in-law. As the days continued to drag on and on, and I was busy throwing beautiful samples of my highly-unstable and difficult-to-purify aldehyde on the floor of the NMR room, depression set in. I was living with my friend, Dr. Assy (who was just Candidate Assy at that time), and despite the fact that we would get a coffee every morning, he didn't much care for spooning. Nor for me gently cupping a breast during a chilly autumn evening.

This caused me to, one weekend, decide that, dammit, I wanted some sex I should go see my family. So, I loaded myself into my car (a Ford Contour, the Pantie-Liner of Sedans) shortly after noon and jumped onto the interstate that runs just north of Notre Dame's campus. On the way to the on-ramp, I fueled up at the world's slowest gas pump, which caused me to wander into the store to buy chocolaty comestibles. As I was wandering toward the counter to pay up for my provisioning, I thought I'd buy a bottle of water and a diet cola to slake my thirst while I drove. It was, after all, a ten-hour trip...at least. Since it was a long trip, I decided to buy the 32 ounce bottle of water. Makes sense, right? Sort of.

So, I paid for my food and I paid for my gas and I paid for my drinks. I got in my car and I got onto the Indiana Toll Road and I headed east. Four and a half hours later, I was in Cleveland, turning south onto I-77, which would take me to Charlotte. I had made this drive a few times, so I knew where my favorite places to stop were: New Philadelphia, OH (the home of legendary Ohio State football coach, Woody Hayes!) and Fancy Gap, VA (Smack in the middle of Frank Beamer Country...And Don't You Fucking Forget It!).

New Philadelphia is a fantastic little burgh clinging to the interstate in eastern Ohio where I could fuel up fairly cheaply, and right next door to the gas station was a Taco Bell, so I could gas up there, too. And then right across from the Taco Bell was a store promising to service all of my adult needs. In my book, that's a win-win-win situation.

So, as usual, I got off at New Philadelphia (heh) and I gassed up at the BP and then I gassed up again at the Taco Bell and then I somehow managed to avoid the Sirens' song offered by the lovely ladies of New Philadelphia, OH. How I did it without pouring wax into my ears, I'll never know. But, I managed to get back onto the interstate and continue to hurtle myself south toward West Virginia at break neck speed (I assume 75 mph to be break neck speed).

Did I mention that I got a large Mountain Dew at Taco Bell in New Philadelphia? Yes. I figured I could use the caffeine to stay awake and, thusly, alive while I drove through the Virginias. Hi-oh! This train wasn't stopping until Fancy Gap. Punch in the coordinates for light speed and we're off, Chewy.

A few hours later, and I was beginning to feel the unmistakable sensation of my bladder filling up. You know the feeling. The one that tells your brain "Hey, gotta take a piss." Yes, well, I ignored it. I was in West Virginia when the urge first hit and, well, West Virginia is a beautiful state. I wouldn't want to sully it with my urine. So, onward I pressed.

The urge began to grow more pressing the further south I went. It didn't help that the lap belt was stretched across that area just north of my Howdoyoudo, applying extra pressure on my rapidly filling bladder. You know what else didn't help? I kept drinking the fucking 32 ounce bottle of water.

Finally, just south of Wytheville, VA, I'm really feeling it. You know, that urge to piss so badly that you think your bladder is about to pop like a child's balloon or that dream bubble in which you're having hot monkey sex with Melissa Joan Hart? Yes, well, that's the feelings my bladder was sending to my brain.

Actually, it was telling me, "Listen, asshole, either empty me or I'm gonna 'splode all over your insides. Do you really want piss on your intestines? No? Then pull the fuck over!" My bladder tends to have a piss-poor attitude when it's rapidly filling.

It's not as shitty as my colon when I get backed up, though.

God, I'm punny.

"Hold on, Little Buddy," I kept telling my bladder as I read the mile markers, "It's only 23 more miles and then I'll empty you out."

It got to the point where I was shifting back and forth in my seat to relieve the pressure on my distended bladder. Finally--blessedly!--the sign telling me Fancy Gap was a mere mile away hove into view. Relief was a scant five thousand, two hundred and eight feet away!

I exit at the fanciest gap in all of Virginia and make my way over to the BP, a glowing green-and-gold oasis offering me the promise of gasoline, flushable toilets, a rather surly-looking attendant behind the counter wearing a faded Virginia Tech hat, and more chocolaty goodness for the last 100 miles of my journey. I pull up to the station, arching my back because I have to pee so badly and I think that this particular way of holding my body will offer the most relief.

Now, when it comes to using public facilities, I'm one of those people who hates using their somewhat clean toilets without offering a little restitution. So, I get out of the car, stretch, feel the cool night air upon my flesh, and simply soak in the fact that I'm not crammed into the pilot's seat of a Ford Contour (the Pantie-Liner of Sedans). I decide that my first purchase shall be approximately ten and a half gallons of gasoline. I slide my card into the reader, insert the nozzle into the gas tank, and pull the lever. A rush of gasoline cascades into the car's interior tanks.

At this point, I'm doing a little shuffle back-and-forth from one leg to the other, the whole time clenching those muscles in my groin that both make my dick dance back and forth and also keep me from pissing. I'm about halfway done filling my tank when the inevitable happens.

My bladder rebels. The muscles used to clench my urethra closed fail. And once the seal has been broken, the diet soda, the Mountain Dew, and the water all come rushing out. At once. While I'm still filling my car up.

Yes, like a three-year-old learning to use the potty, I had an accident.

You know, kind of like if the Hoover Dam suddenly, catastrophically fails, you could call that an "accident".

Of course, I wasn't wearing jeans or something dark colored that could hide my shame. No, as I stood there in my piss-soaked shorts, the faded green khaki color turned a very noticeable forest green. And I pissed so much and so hard that it soaked through my boxer-briefs and shorts and actually made a cascade onto the concrete.

Finished, and with as much dignity as I could muster, I replaced the hose for the gas line. I put the gas cap back in the tank. I closed the cover over the gas cap. I went to the trunk and pulled out a pair of fresh boxer-briefs and shorts and, holding them so that they hovered over my soiled crotch, I made my way into the BP. Thank whatever deity you believe in, the BP at Fancy Gap, VA is not nearly as swinging a joint as you might imagine at 10 pm on a Friday night. Only the surly-looking attendant at the counter and someone talking to him about bass boats saw me. They barely acknowledged me as I went back to the restroom, relieved whatever else had built up in my bladder after shaming myself at the pump station, and dropped my pants onto the floor. I changed quickly, rolling the soiled shorts and underwear up, and made my way back out to the car. I threw them in the trunk. I tried my best to forget the whole thing ever happened.

Then here's a curious thing: I went back into the service station and bought another drink!!! And, of course, some more chocolaty goodness for the ride down to Charlotte. I told you I'm one of those people who feels compelled to purchase something when I piss in someone's parking lot public restroom.

The rest of the trip to Charlotte was without urinary incident. I found my way to my in-law's house and my wife was very happy to see me. She met me at the door, and hugged me, and was very happy to have me back in her possession for a couple of days. I then went back out to the car to get my things. I gathered up my bag and some writing material and...I left the piss-soaked clothing in the car. I figured it better not to bring that up in the presence of my in-laws.

And then, as I was walking back into the house, the dog from up the street mauled me.

Fucking asshole dog.

Pop the Champagne! It's Celebration Time!

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What Do You People Want from Me?

I'm certainly no stranger to door-to-door religion salesmen. We used to be plagued by Jehovah's Witnesses all the time up in Bumblefuck, IN. Most of the time, when these young men dressed in their spiffy white shirts, black pants, and ties would knock upon the front door, my mother would ignore them. Even if my brother and I would be standing in the front window where the God-peddlers could see that the house was, indeed, occupied, she'd just ignore them. They'd knock and knock and, eventually, would traipse away without getting to spread the joy of the gospels to us.

But, alas, my mother would have already been on the neighborhood watch line--also known as the telephone--informing the neighbors that there were Jehovah's Witnesses in the town and that they should lock their doors and ignore them. Also, that Christi Tiegland was pregnant again. Can you believe it? What a whore.

Now that I've moved to the South, we don't get Jehovah's Witnesses so much, but we get a far worse kind of plague: Baptists. The first time they came, they tricked me. Two rather attractive young ladies dressed in short skirts and sleeveless shirts were standing on the step out front ringing my doorbell. Thinking that their car had broken down in front of my house and if I helped them to repair it or call for help, they'd repay me in true porno movie style they were selling cookies, I threw the door open. To my horror, they had neither automotive problems nor delicious snacks to sell.

Ladies: Good afternoon, sir. We're with Liberty Baptist Church, and we'd like to invite you to come worship the Lord with us.
Me: I'm Catholic.
Ladies: We want to extend the invitation to worship the Lord to all God's children.
Me: I'm Catholic.
Ladies: The table of the Lord is set for anyone willing to be born again in His glory and righteousness.
Me: *blatantly staring at their breasts*
Ladies: Sir?
Me: *still staring at their chests* Thank you, Jesus!

Eventually, they left. Since the initial confrontation, I had become wary of their religious guile. Another time, I was sitting at home and I had ordered a pizza for me and the kids to enjoy. The doorbell rang. Expecting a big round slice of Italian heaven, instead, I once again got invited to join Jesus at his banquet table--apparently, all that walking everywhere made him hungry. Again, it was two attractive teenage girls peddling the Lord's wares and not delivering me with a pizza nor offering to massage my sins away.

Finally, a third time they arrived. I wasn't expecting anyone this time, so I didn't immediately throw the door open. The kids were running back and forth, screaming that someone was at the front door. Undeterred, my uninvited guests continued knocking and ringing the bell. Finally, the football game had gone to halftime I had had enough, and so I decided to end this little charade here and now.

That, of course, meant dropping my pants. I kicked off my shoes, ripped off my socks and dropped trou. My daughter asked what I was doing. I just nodded to her and said, "Answerin' the door, honey."

I ripped the door open, fully expecting it to be yet another pair of teenage girls looking for a jump to peddle Jesus to me. Instead, it was a couple of dowdy middle aged women, and you could see by the shock on their faces that they were not expecting me to be standing before them in my underwear and a t-shirt. However, they pushed on with their spiel message:

Women: Good afternoon, sir, we're with Liberty Baptist Church and we wanted to ask you some questions.
Me: Aren't you two supposed to be teenagers?
Women: We have many members of the congregation who do door-to-door missionary services.
Me: Well, I guess I'll just have to 'covet my neighbor's wife' instead of his daughters this time.
Women: Are you familiar with Jesus?
Me: Familiar with? Hell yeah. He's a great guy. Cuts the lawns on Tuesday. He does a good job. I recommend him.
Women: We're talking about our Savior, Jesus Christ.
Me: Oh, yeah. THE Jesus. Yeah, I have a healthy snack of his blood and flesh every...well...once a year, at least. Sometimes twice.
Women: Well...if you were to die today, do you know where you'd go?
Me: Are you selling funeral plots or funeral planning? Cause I'm not interested. I want a Viking funeral.
Women: No, we're talking about your immortal soul.
Me: *reaches down to my balls to scratch...and just keep scratching* Oh, yeah, that. Well, I figure I'd go to Purgatory for a few thousand years or however long it takes. They're a little fuzzy on the details. But I'll eventually make it to the Pearly Gates...unlike those bastards who decided to go nailing stuff to the church's door. I pity those poor souls and their eternal torment. *lifts fingers up to nose and sniffs* Yergh. That smells terrible.
Women: Thank you for your time, sir.

I should probably mention here that I don't really believe that Purgatory stuff, but I had a football game to watch and kids to ignore, so I needed to employ drastic measures. So, if you're a Protestant, don't worry...I know that you won't go to Hell; you'll just keep languishing in Purgatory for a while longer than I will.

Anyway, that was nearly three years ago now, and they haven't been back since. Not at least while I've been home. I don't know, maybe they've visited my wife, but I do like to cling to the notion that I've scared them off and that there's a big red X over my house on their Heathen Map.