Pee Wee And The Squirts

 

So. My team lost, Squat’s team lost, the Reckmonster and TQ’s team lost. Brandon from over to Idaho was the only fan with a winning college football team yesterday, with Boise State. Of the three losses, I have to say that Michigan’s loss to Michi-fuggin State was the worst.

Tennessee lost to number one LSU and my beloved Texas Longhorns dropped one to the sixth-ranked Okie State Cowboys. Each of our teams is filled with freshmen and first-year starters who play hard and show promise to be good.

Michigan lost ugly.

Reck, if you’re listening, if I were there I would poor-sweet-baby you. As a true college football fanatic, I know what it feels like to take a terrible beating and, also, what it takes to ease that pain. I won’t go into all of it here, but think foot rubs, your favorite meals, and…

The little dog formerly-known-as Pi has started to adapt to the Johnson family way of life. The bug-eyed shitbird now called Yoda has started acting more like my dog every day. He doesn’t flinch when Gram shoots him the evil eye, he’s learned to dry his little hooded pecker on the wash cloth after peeing in the sink, and he stood up to the cat for the first time yesterday.

One of the things that drives me the most crazy about myself is (are?) those last few drops of urine that hang around in your pecker after you think you have finished a pee event. You pee and shake, wiggle and pee some more, massage and wiggle and shake and pee another tiny stream. You think you’re finished and then wring the last of it off the tip, wipe on the damp wash rag, and then you wash your hands/flush the sink and move on.

Next thing you know, your sitting at your computer to check all your buddies’ bloggies and you reach your hand into your shorts to hold your pecker. I like my pecker and I hold it every chance I get. Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson has, at various times, told me that it is: a substitute pacifier; a protective gesture; a reactive gesture to having been raped as a kid; foreplay.

It seems that many primates play with their gentiles and for those many reasons. While I have never flashed my pecker in public on purpose, I have accidentally loosed it before a crowd when my ass show malfunctioned. I wasn’t bothered any of those times. As I said, I like my pecker and enough to take it everywhere I go.

When I was younger, I worried that I would be a flasher if my pecker were one of those giant things. Since it is what was told to me to be “typical for a man of your race and size”[,] I think of it as special to only me and those with whom I wish to share it. But if I had one of those twelve-inch jobbies with the girth of an old fashioned glass…

Well, I’d get a ruler tattooed along its length and a measuring tape around its fattest part, and I’d share.

Anyway, I was sitting at the computer to read with my hand stuffed in my pants, when I sensed a dampness against my fingers as I did that idle-minded pecker-petting we men do. Then, as men do, I removed my hand from my pants and stuck the dampened fingers to my nose for a sniff.

“Ugh,” I said aloud. “My pecker smells like stale pee.”

OK, now everyone calm down. If you didn’t know this about the men in your life, you don’t have fully-intimate relationships. Any of you men who will deny these habits can go fuck your self-denying shithead selves. We ALL do it.

Anyway, at dinner last night I brought the subject into the conversation, wondering if anyone had any ideas as to how to get the last drops of pee to settle anywhere other than my underwear. Mother said, “Oh sweet Jesus, Mooner, is the dinner table an appropriate place for that?” which was a totally predictable response from my mother.

“Quit yer whinin’, Mother. This sounds serious,” Gram started. “What’s it smell like?”

“Well,” I told her, “it smells like urine but a touch stale.”

“Thank God. I was worried you was smelling like head cheese. I hate when a man has that smell a head cheese commin’ outta his hoodie.”

I started to remind my grandmother that I was circumcised at a quite tender age but decided I didn’t want to hear the story of Mother latching my pecker in the steel zipper of a pair of Daddy’s old coveralls. That story is in the book, and the memory too painful to fully relive at this juncture.

OK, what.. in the fuck… was my point?

I guess it doesn’t really make a shit. I’m taking the whole crew fishing. The Carta Blanca beer is loaded and we’re heading out. Manana, y’all.

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5 Responses to “Pee Wee And The Squirts”

  1. Thanks, Mooner, you’re the best. I could use some consoling after that shit-fest they attempted to call a “football game” between Michigan and those evil Spartoons. I’d have to say, I had a few issues with Brady “Andy Devine” Hoke’s play-calling. Why the fuck would you keep switching out your qb on every single play? Yeah, Denard Robinson was throwing like a shit-bird and his passing stats were something like 2 for 6,893 (for a whopping passing efficiency rate of 0.0031916436965037 %), but DA-YUMMMMMMM…let homie get into a groove and let him run his ass of at least…Shit. Well, Michigan’s undefeated season is dead, so no use beating a dead Wolverine. I’ll just get back up on that pony and get the ole maize and blue blood flowing again and start rooting for the next game (ain’t no fairweather fan here…a pissed off one, but not a fairweather one!).

    As for the driblets of urination left upon one’s Johnson (snicker snicker)…I am the single mother of a boy child…I keep TELLING him to shake off the excess after the pee-pee machen; however, I am not in possession of a boy part in my pants, so I am not really all that sure what other “advice” to give him. I’m tempted to tell him to take one square of toilet paper and to dab it on the end to absorb any remnant driblets and then throw it in the john before he flushes – but that would create a problem at a urinal, now wouldn’t it?

  2. Brandon says:

    Wait wait wait now… I’m not sure if I want to claim Boise State or not… I’ll take the accolades of being the only guy in the winner’s circle this week, but I’m still deep down a USC fan.

    As for the pecker scenario, I once walked into a pet store, took a whiff, and almost instantly said “Wow this place smells like balls…” I was travelling with a female companion at the time, and she hit the ground laughing… I admit to doing the smell test now and then, and sometimes a little dribble is unavoidable. I have a pair of tight boxer briefs that give me this problem all the time if I’m not careful.

    I bet Rick Perry doesn’t have this problem. I question whether or not he’s a real man…

  3. Squatlo Vol says:

    I overheard my dad and some of his inebriated friends discussing the dribbles one night at a watering hole where I was often an unwilling companion, and this is what one of his friends told my dad: “I think it’s like an old faucet. When the gaskets are new, it shuts off like a charm. But after forty or fifty years, the thing tends to leak a little at the cutoff. The older it gets, the more it dribbles.”

    I had no idea what the fuck they were talking about at the time. My job at the beer joint was to cut the cork out from under the coke bottle tops looking for free cokes and cash refunds. Anyone else remember when bottle caps had cork linings? Some of the soda companies put prizes under the cork, and my dad figured out if he dumped a bag of those puppies out on a table and gave me his pocket knife I would keep myself busy for hours, AND (an added bonus) learn how to staunch a bleeding finger every now and then.
    I’ve often thought of that faucet analogy, though. Makes sense. The worst is when you’re slightly on the tipsy side, and think you’re done, but you really aren’t? Then you load the boys back into the cotton bag and head on back to your house guests or the restaurant table, or back to work, and realize you’ve got on khaki pants with a wet spot the size of a cue ball on your crotch. And it takes hours to dry, by which time you’ve gone back to the bathroom and resoaked the same fucking spot.
    I think maybe someone needs to come up with a dribble pad for older men.
    Call it the “iPeed” or something… Where’s Steve Jobs when we need him?

  4. bj says:

    Mooner, I’m fiddin’ tuh change yer life! See …. whutcha do is ….. if you ONLY haveta go nummer 1, see … ya mount yer twa-lett like ya wuz gettin’ onna motersickle see …. facin’ BAKerds……. then, ya dip yer…. uhh …. E-Kwipmint ….down as low as ya can go…. Do yer bid’ness …. and yank ‘at handle ….. grab a bar of Ivory Soap(now…. this is about CLEANIN’yer stuff…. and JUST cleanin’… yer stuff …. so ya gotta stay fokussed!)give ‘er a rub ‘er two and all the swirly water’ll rinse yer stuff (drip alls ya wanna during the flush or as they say onna shampoo bottle “rinse, lather, repeat” so’s you might haveta do it a coupla times …. again …. STAY FOKUSSED DURIN” THE SOPEY PART) then alls ya gotta do is dry yer big ass off and wah-lah! No stinkin’ staley smell! Now, I wanna kawshun ya here …. DO NOT ‘MULTI-TASK (or as Larunce Welk used ta say “A one ANNA two”) while yer facin’ backerds …. cud git messy that way…………. yer welcome agin …..

  5. admin says:

    Reck. OK, first, with a two-loss Texas team I’m with you. Time to move on so long as we do better next game. As for your lack of understanding the uniquinesses of the adult male pecker, I will be happy to let you observe mine–in the name of science only. Can’t have you going around all unprepared to address issues with the hooli.

    Brandini. I can always count on you to have some practical choices to life’s complexities. As for your college football weekend, what you seem to be saying is that not only were you the only winner for the weekend, since you root both for Boise State and USC, you are a double winner. Don’t be cruel, we’re already suffering enough.

    Squat. You, motherfucker, can always be counted on to find the dark side of all my problems. But I do get the jist of aging body parts. I’m starting to see the allure some old geezers find in sitting around and shitting in their pants. I was a peel-the-bottle-cap freak as a kid. I couldn’t pass a Coke machine with dumping the caps and shredding my fingers. My other “free shit” obsession was with Vallomilk candy bars. Collect the little cardboard coins and send them in for a free cardboard tube of ten. And when we get together drinking beers, remind me to tell you about the time I held my water through the entirety of the movie Fantasia.

    BJ, you evil-fucking genius. I’m trying your idea right now. I’ll be right back to report…. OK, I’m back. First a question. Did you intentionally set me up for failure or was it happenstance? If your purpose was to have me, a. piss on the side of the vanity, b. hurt my back and legs as I squatted like a fucking brokeback duck trying to get a stream started from an unnatural position, and c. bang my head on the cabinet over the commode, you have accomplished your evil mission.

    I should known the dangers when you used the word “focus” twice in your instructions. I was so busy focussing on my focus, I lost focus on the project. Now I have to clean the bathroom, take a shower and dress in some clean undies and shorts. I’m sticking to pissing in the sink and dealing with the backflows.

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