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.

TMI Thursday: It Tastes Like...Victory!

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!

When I was in grad school, my chemist buddies and I tended to hang out with the physics guys a lot. It made some sort of sense, really, since the physics department was in the building adjacent to the chemistry building. In fact, our library was in their building, so we'd see them a lot in the halls.

It was this passing in the hallways that got us invited to their parties. And you know what? This is going to be counter-intuitive, but the physics guys threw some good parties. I guess they had to. If there's one department in the graduate school that has a worse male:female ratio than chemistry, it's physics. I know, shocking, huh? Anyway, in order to lower that male:female ratio, the physics guys would invite pretty much every warm-blooded, breathing female they could find to their parties. And then they'd ply everyone with alcohol. So, yes, physics is exactly like a douchebag frat. And they would have parties all the fucking time! I guess when your life revolves around numbers and Greek letters, all you have to look forward to is the sweet relief that booze offers.

This particular story takes place at a physics party.

There was this cat named Doran who was a physics grad student at the same time I was there for chemistry. Doran was older, with a real stocky, husky build and salt-and-pepper hair that trended more toward salt than pepper. Rumor had it that he had once been a physics teacher for a high school, but he got fired or retired or something. The details were a little fuzzy, but he was at ND to get a higher degree so that he could teach college or something.

More than anything in the world, I think Doran just wanted a friend. Well, and he wanted to get laid. Doran had this dating policy that we called "Flood the Market." He would ask out every female he met. And his pick up lines, while not extraordinarily lame, were pretty white bread: "Hi, my name is Doran. Would you like to go out Friday night." I guess it worked because he eventually got someone to say yes. How that panned out, I'll never know.

Anyway, Doran would also wander around the student center, asking everyone at a table if they'd like some company for lunch. And finally some poor sap would agree and Doran would sit down and chat this guy up like they were the oldest buddies. It was odd, and slightly creepy, and somewhat desperate, but he seemed happy. Except for that whole not getting laid part, which is pretty much how I knew him throughout most of my ND experience.

So, anyway, we're at a physics party, and there's Doran over in the corner, looking as shady as ever. The apartment wasn't exceedingly large, and there was one bathroom near the kitchen/laundry room that pretty much everyone used. So, I was standing there chatting with the ringleader of the physics parties, this guy named Hoop. We were discussing something male-oriented--Tia Carrere admitting in an interview to Maxim that she was hairless from the neckline down--when Doran passed by to use the bathroom.

I know you're having your doubts, but the events of that five minutes are pretty much indelibly chiseled across my memory for eternity. Plus, at the time, I thought Tia Carrere was pretty hot.

Anyway, Doran finishes up in the restroom, comes out, nods to us, picks up his half-finished beer and heads back to whatever corner he had crawled from in order to Flood the Market some more. That's when this other guy, whose name was Mark, walked into the restroom.

"Ah, Jesus!" Mark yelled. "Who pissed all over the floor?"

Hoop and I knew exactly who had been in there. Hoop (the owner of the apartment and the host of the party) called Doran on it immediately.

"Doran, you asshole, you pissed all over the floor!" Hoop yells.

"No, I didn't!" Doran exclaims.

"Look, there's piss all over the floor. It wasn't there a minute ago, and you're the only one who has been in there! You pissed all over my floor!"

"That's not piss. It's probably from where I washed my hands!" Doran saunters back across the apartment, steps into the bathroom, and looks down at the puddle on the floor beside the toilet.

That's when he set his beer on the vanity and knelt down on one knee as if he was about to propose to the toilet. He dipped a finger in the puddle...and then he tasted it.

...

Still with me?

"Yep! That's piss, alright!" Doran exclaimed. He got back up, picked up his beer, went and got a handful of paper towels, and cleaned it up. He flushed and was back in the corner.

The whole time, I stood there with a look of Oh my fucking God, he just tasted pissed off the floor written on my face, as did Hoop and Mark. And pretty much everyone else in the apartment.

And then it dawned on me.

I turned to Hoop and said, "In order for him to know that that was piss--"

"He would have to have tasted piss before!" Hoop finished my thought.

Then we shared an audible shudder.

"Jesus," I said, "Let's hope his next trick isn't to drop a turd on the ground."

"Regardless," Hoop offered, "I think this is the last party I invite Doran to."

As far as I know, it was.