Confessions Of A Public Urinator

This is slightly embarrassing to admit, but for you to fully understand this story and the motives behind it, I must come clean: I, C-dog, have a small bladder. By that, I mean, I have to pee a lot. Especially when I've been drinking, and if you've ever hoisted a few beers with me, you know that much is true. Why is this? Don't know... a quirk of biology, I guess, or maybe it's the penance I'm required to pay for being such a drunkard all the time. Either way, it's a pain in the butt. Or, rather, a pain in the wang. Whatever, you get my point.

Anyway, last night, I was at a bar in the Times Square area of Manhattan with some friends, celebrating one amongst their number's birthday. A good time was had by all and, when I left, it goes without saying that I was, as Aristotle so eloquently put it in his seminal work, Nichomachean Ethics, "about a pube away from being just totally hammered." It should be noted, though, that I had the presence of mind to pee at the bar (in the bathroom, not at the actual bar) before I left. Not that it mattered much, of course, because of the aforementioned issue, as you will soon see.

So, I stumbled down the stairs to the 49th street platform, caught the R train to Brooklyn, and for a time, all was well. Then... around the City Hall stop... I began to feel the need. For those of you who've never had to pee before, let me see if I can explain the need to you: It's a lot like suddenly discovering that you're pregnant with the Atlantic Ocean, and that the Atlantic Ocean is in a big-ass hurry to exit your body and get back it's comfortable life as a large body of water. It's a combination of terrible pressure and winching, sharp pains, and it can make riding on a rocky subway about as much fun as being squished in one of those industrial press thingies that they used to kill Schwarzenegger in the first Terminator.

So, a few stops later, we pull into the Court St. station and, because the need had intensified to a ridiculous level, I knew that I now had to take matters into my own hands. I exited the train and I walked all the way to the end of the platform, as far away from the stairs and from the other people waiting for trains as I could get.

Now, okay, I recognize that peeing off of a subway platform isn't... um... the smoothest thing a guy can do. It's, frankly, pretty gross and at least four different kinds of sad. But what would you have me do? Pee on the train? Piss myself? Die from an exploded bladder? No... because all of those things would lead to my humiliation and/or demise and you don't want that. Thus, to the platform's edge, go I.

And go I did. Right next to a sleeping homeless man, actually, who thankfully didn't wake up while I did my business. Though if he had, I think we'd have shared a special moment: "You pee off of subway platforms? Hey, I pee off subway platforms!!! Brothers for life, C-dog?" And we would have been. But I wouldn't have hugged him because homeless men are gross and have diseases.

Hm... Not sure I was going with any of this. Well, no matter, let's just say that last night, I peed in public, and it was pretty awesome.