My Pee Buddy ‘N’ Me
I peed next to Indian Doctor. Twice.
It must be said that I don’t keep a regular urinary schedule or anything like that. I drink seven bottles of water a day (for good luck), and so I go two or three times in an afternoon. It was just a coincidence that Indian Doctor and I met twice that day. Both times, I stood at the urinal, soon to be nestled by a visitor at the only conjoining fixture.
“How’s it going?” asked my wiener.
“Shut up,” said Indian Doctor’s wiener. “Don’t talk to me while I’m peeing.”
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Indian Doctor and I soon became close. One night we decided to go to the drive-in so that we could see Shoot ‘Em Up. However, the drive-in was sold out.
“Well, what do you wanna do?” I asked.
“I dunno,” said Indian Doctor.
“Me neither,” replied his wiener.
I had an idea. “How about we go to the moon?”
So we drove to the moon. It was very rocky.
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Indian Doctor liked the moon. I liked the moon. Both of our wieners liked the craters. We decided to get a summer house there. For when Earth-living got too warm. We spent a number of years vacationing on the moon, but then the moon lost its magic. We would vow that each summer would be our last. Still we kept coming back out of some ill-guided devotion. Maybe it was tradition. It was very rocky.
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My piano man is Elton John. My wiener’s is Ben Folds. My wiener is trendy and has a goatee.
We were sitting under the stars one night and looking at the Earth, talking about this and that–all of us except for Indian Doctor’s wiener, which was in the kitchen making loganberry pie. “Don’t you wish this whole moon was made out of candy?” said Indian Doctor.
I smiled. “Oh man,” I said.
“Eh,” said my wiener. “It all tastes the same to me.”
“Shut up or I will stick a pencil in you,” I said.
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Indian Doctor’s wiener bought the pie recipe from Hap’s Roadside Diner. The diner pie was outstanding. The wiener’s pie was a cheap imitation.
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“Did you know that McDonald’s shakes are actually made of potatoes?” asked my wiener.
“No, I didn’t,” I said.
“It’s true,” said my wiener. “Did you know that an elephant can sustain itself on nothing but rocks and soil for three weeks before it dies?”
“No.”
“That’s also true. I just thought of it.”
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One night my wiener decided to play a joke on the rest of us. He put laxatives into our coffeed beverages.
We could tell by the look on its face that something was up.
I snuck some habanero peppers into its latte. Boy, was its face red.
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I don’t care what anyone tells you–my wiener never kissed Indian Doctor’s wiener. Not once.
I didn’t kiss it either. I wanted to, though. It made a hell of a pie.
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There is no square root of pie. Pie is a complex equation involving both dough and filling. If you square dough, you get bread. If you square filling, you have jelly (or a hearty stew). Therefore, no square root.
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I introduced Indian Doctor to Joli. She liked him very much.
I didn’t have the balls to introduce our wieners to her.
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One night we came into the house and found Indian Doctor’s wiener laying on the ground in a puddle of blood.
“Ow,” said my wiener. “My soul hurts.”
Tears were shed, blame was placed.
“I think I need to distance myself from you,” said Indian Doctor.
It was okay. I was only using him for his wiener anyway.
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I went out to dinner with Joli one night. I told her she could order anything she wanted on the menu, unless the food was red.
“You could just tell me not to order the lobster,” Joli said. She looked irritated.
“No,” I said. “For serious. I just don’t like red things.”
She ordered the T-bone–well-done–with the cream of mushroom soup and a side salad. The salad came with tomatoes.
I never saw Joli again.
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The Blood Mobile came to work one day. I heard about it and got really excited.
Turns out it was just a plain workvan where they drew blood. Not even racing stripes or anything.
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“Want to play Twenty Questions?” I asked it.
“Sure,” my wiener replied.
“Ask away,” I said.
“Is it a thing?”
“No.” 19.
“A place?”
“No.” 18.
“A person?”
“Yes.” 17.
“Alive in the past twenty-five years?”
“No.” 16.
“In the past fifty?”
“No.” 15.
“In the past hundred?”
“No.” 14.
“Oh. An old fart. American?”
“No.” 13.
“European?”
“Yeah.” 12.
“Real or fictional?”
“You wiener! It has to be a yes-or-no!”
“Is it fictional?”
“No.” 11.
“Is this person a horrible zombie, dripping with pus and dessicated flesh, hellbent on destructive revenge against the world and the twisted society that created him?”
“No. No it’s not.” 10.
“Is it Napoleon?”
“God damnit.”
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One day in the bathroom, I squeezed myself next to Kevin Wincloud. He was standing there with his underpants and his overpants at his ankles and his hands pressed against the top of the urinal.
He brought his hand to his mouth. I glanced over and saw a collection of loose gummi candies sitting atop the john. He snatched up another–a worm–and shoved it in his mouth. I smiled.
After I got a fair shake, I playfully pushed his head violently against the tiled wall. He looked over and shoved his thumb into my eye.
“It’s just not the same,” said my wiener later.
I sighed. “I wonder where Indian Doctor is now.” I wiped a drop of blood from the tip of my nose.
June 30th, 2008 at 1:48 pm
Epic.