God is a comedian playing to an audience that is afraid to laugh - Voltaire
God scribbled out my life on a napkin one night while drunk in a roadside diner. “Ha ha ha,” he snickered, the scent of stripper fresh in his breath, “this one is going to be funny.” He then blew his nose on my existence and proceeded to devour his cheeseburger like David Hasselhoff on a relapse.
(A masculine representation of our omnipresent originator has been designated on the grounds that I refuse to imagine a womanly figure so asinine as to concoct a shenanigan involving the excruciating mistaking of a hemorrhoid for a pimple.)
I hope he’s finding it hilarious, my life, because I’m not quite getting it. I just don’t see the humor in having me, in a rush, forget to shave that little bit of hair beneath the bottom lip, leaving me to unknowingly walk around for an entire day with a scraggly, pre-pubescent soul patch. I’m sorry; I just don’t get it. I just don’t find it funny that that Chinese waiter’s dandruff would sprinkle into my Kung Pao Chicken. And I just can’t seem to bring myself to laughter later learning that Kung Pao Chicken is by no means customarily topped with mayonnaise. God is a comedian? It’s been nearly six months since I’ve been laid. This is not a funny joke. There should be a line here.
But it seems, however, that there is not. God is a comedian, and the joke is on me. I am a marionette forever picking my nose in public.
Perhaps one of God’s favorite acts of roguery is his infamous tinkle trick. It’s a simple trick, really, when measured against the breadth of his infinity; yet, he loves it nonetheless. As it is:
I take a piss. Urine is emancipated. My knob is shaken. And shaken. And shaken. And shaken. And no matter how many shakes more, when I put my peter back in my pants …drip, drip. There is a tinkle.
Good one, God.
And you’d think that after decades of such harassment, perhaps I would learn better. I could wear a penis yarmulke, or a full blown adult diaper. I could restrict myself to a completely solid diet, or install a catheter. There are ways around this, one might suggest. I don’t have to pee …into my pants.
But no, I’m not the type to run from my destiny. If it’s God’s will that I spend eternity tinkling in my trousers, then so be it. I’m quick on my feet; when the time comes, I’ll always think of something.
Such was the case today.
I had five minutes before my fourth period class, and my bladder was bursting. Sallying to the john, I swung open the door, and WHOOOSHHH!
A waff of mud poodle melted my face off.
Another one of God’s booby traps. If I had a dollar for every time he’s tried to sabotage me with an already reeking bathroom, I’d be a thousandaire. It’s no sweat, though, like I said, I’m quick on my feet. God doesn’t always get the best of me.
“Auughhh, gross!” I announce. “This bathroom STINKS!!” I inform potential skeptics.
And then I proceeded to enter, applauding my genius skills of reversal, chuckling, and calling God a schmuck.
But I spoke too soon.
That schmuck, he got me. He got me good.
It was my pants’ 2,000th birthday (pants years), and in celebration of their good fortune, I decided to get a babysitter and leave my underwear at home. …Ok, you got me. Really, my underwear was just dirty, and I didn’t yet have the chance to wash them. …Ok, you got me again. Really, I just don’t wear underwear. Regardless, I pulled up to the urinal and began to urinate. Upon completion of the process, I took a hold of my penis and shook. And shook. And shook. And shook. And then I put my penis back in my pants. And with no underwear on, I tinkled in my khakis.
Fuck.
As has become the process, I collected a few sheets of paper towel, wet them, and began to dab at my pee stain. Then I walked over to the blow dryer and …FUCK!
The stupid thing was busted. Fucking punk ass kids.
Shit. Fuck. I began to panic. One minute left. Frantically, I looked around for a plan.
And then I realized: hey, you’re the teacher here. These kids look up to you. You’re like their hero. What are you so worried about?
And with newfound confidence, I returned to my classroom.
Where Vincent had a question. “What you pee your pants, Mr. Kimble?”
And in my best Sandler, I replied, “Of course I peed my pants. Peeing your pants is the coolest!”
Crickets.
One could wear underwear or use toilet paper to minimize the drippage.