As I was flipping through “Body and Soul,” a book of photographic works by Andres Serrano, I ran across my favorite work by him, “Piss Christ.”  I remember what moral outrage and commotion it stirred up.  Ha-haa.  It really tied the Congress’s ball bags in a knot.  Heh, heh.  This was years before the “internets” really took off.  If only that racist pig, Jesse Helms, could see what humanoids are up to nowadays as they surf endless waves of net porn.  In any case, a recent personal pee event made me chuckle in new way, as I gazed at the crucifix suffocating in beautiful, orange piss.

I went to the movies with my daughter the other night (“Wind River”—GREAT movie!) and drank two large Coke Zeros, and, well, I had to piss right bad, after.  At sixty-two, I dare not risk a ride home with a full tank.  So, I decided to hit the head before I hit the road. 

My toilet trip started off bad right from the get-go.  I like using the handicapped stall because I’m old and have muscular dystrophy.  To keep my balance, I must assume a wide stance.  No, not the Republican type of wide stance, where I’m looking to touch peters with the guy in the shitter next to me.  (I wonder how many times Jesse Helms was involved in gay games in a public pisser pitch.)  My broad stance is for balance.  I’ll tip over mid-stream, if I’m not careful!  Anyway, some asshole was already in “my” handicap stall.  I hate that.  Well, I made due and went into the stall next to the thieving prick.  The lock was fucked up and wouldn’t slide in right, so I had to mess around with that for a bit.  Clicking and clacking and all sorts of noise.  As I was doing so, I heard the guy in the handicap stall trying, desperately, to piss.  It was awful!  I had to pity the poor old bastard!  Sounded like he was straining to push piss through a half-corked hypodermic needle!  Each exertion was in slow, drizzling tuplets or triplets.  Sprinkle-sprinkle.  Sprinkle-sprinkle-sprinkle.  Horrible!  I could sense his fear of rupturing something!

Welp, I had to get pissin’, myself.  Takes me awhile, first, ‘cause like I said, I have muscular dystrophy, which makes my body subtly catawampus.  They told me my femurs are unusually lengthy, but it was my calves that are way, way longer than “normal.”  The combination of muscle loss and tibia length makes my forelegs look like toothpicks.  My torso is kind of short and my stomach muscles aren’t stitched together like the average person—a condition known as diastasis recti—more common in postpartum women.  (Great.)  The doc told me that they still work but are way more susceptible to various hernias.  One in a thousand, he said.  Wonderful.  (And I used to be hideously embarrassed about a teeny-tiny mole next to my navel.  Jesus fucked-up-Christ, being a teenager blows.)  In the end, all these ticks and distortions add up to the imbalanced flesh tube which is my body.  Now, add that askew proportionality to the fact that I like to wear overalls—the male mumu—it’s not surprising that I have to dig down with my whole hand and part of my forearm into me fly and stretch my pud up and over the zipper.  It’s a somewhat slow and highly irritating task.  All the while I was doing this: Sprinkle-sprinkle—sprinkle-sprinkle-sprinkle.  Jesus Christ!  I really felt for the clogged codger!  Anywho, I start pissing—like a goddamned racehorse—no problem there—waterfall sounds bouncing off every tile.  When the drainage was complete, I packed up shop, which for me for me isn’t easy either.  Ugh.  I not only have to perform the forearm, hand, and wrist maneuvers in reverse, I’ve got to balance a piece of TP at the tip of me nozzle until everything is in place, and until the last of my driz gravitates into the TP.  If I don’t do that—a nasty stream of whiz flows down to me socks.  Annoying maximus!  In the meantime, the drizzle waltz in the background next door was still playing in an excruciating loop.  Squeezing, driz-sprinkle-driz-sprinkle!  Squeezing, driz-sprinkle-driz-sprinkle!  He must have been prayin’ to every known god just to empty that defective pee blister of his.

Speaking of piss prayer, I’m reminded of the Christian Chinese guy I use to work with that would pray—pray to the Lord Jesus, when he took a leak.  “Oh, thank you, oh Prince of Peace!  Lord Jesus!”  I guess it’s not that uncommon a thing.  I know the Buddhist master, Thich Nhat Hanh, has a meditation exercise for when one urinates.  But it was still real weird hearing that guy thankin’ Jesus.  I also can’t help thinking about Andres Serrano’s “Piss Christ,” whenever my thoughts drift back to that creepy Christian piss prayin’.  Hee-hee.

Anyways, as I was leaving my stall, I noticed that there were pissy pecker tracks splattered all over in there!  What the hell?  Did somebody try to whiz with a stiffy?  FUCK!  I decided to exit quick and head for the sinks and soap.  As I was lathering up, I heard the old guy flush and come out of the handicap stall.  Low and behold—he was half my age, at most!  I felt a few seconds of sorrow for him, until he rushed past the cleansing area in a blur on his way out the door.  Yuck.  He was in there for a mighty long spell manhandling his fettered flesh flute!  I pitied the next person to shake his hand, or worse, share his popcorn.

Went to the movies again the following week—“It”—also GREAT!  Pissed after—without a hitch.  All was right.  All was well.

Amen.

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