It was my husband's company BBQ. I tried everything to get out of it but I had to be there. What my husband didn't know is that I have a going problem. When you have a going problem it's like you never want to stop pissing. You piss a lot. I was hiding it from my husband but I had cups and bottles stashed all over the place to catch my surreptitious tinkles. Oh, I tried to put on a happy face.
I was a maverick with number one. Zapping my cooter streams into the narrowest-necked bottles from three feet away, always looking out for trash cans and storm drains and non-biting ant hills. Sorry little dudes, but when a girl's gotta go a girl's gotta go.
Even with my skills tuned to secret pees I hated going into social situations. I never knew when my overactive bladder might strike. I'd start to feel that familiar pee fullness from all those iced coffees and vitamin waters and I felt like people could tell.
My problem was getting out of control. Every dish, tray, carved pumpkin, paper cone, bucket, concave button, and divot in my house was filling up with piss. My life revolved around my bladder. Something had to give. I was either going to need to kill my babies and my husband and turn my house into a pee paradise, a golden pissy palace, a She-water Shangri La, or I was going to have to start taking pills. I bought some gold ribbons at the Michaels and the duct tape and saws and tarps. Then I peed on the tarps. Then I decided to talk to my doctor.
He told me about Detrol LA. It turns out if your body is doing too many pees there's a pill for that. Well, there's actually like twenty pills for that, but Detrol LA is waaaay the best pee pill. Trust me on this one. From a pro-pee lady, Detrol LA will dam you up right.
Pills to fix this crazy cooze of mine? Thank God! Now my babies don't have to die. I don't have to drown my mini-pin Hugh Laurie in his urine filled doggie dish. I won't have to shoot my husband execution-style in the back of the head and dismember his body and seal it behind the drywall in my new pee fountain pavilion.
I don't have any idea how this tinkle tonic fixed my problem. Maybe magic. Maybe science. I think it was Mark Twain or maybe Cory Doctorow who said science, when significantly advanced, is indistinguishable from magic. So, thank you, Mr. Whizzard. Thank you, Harry Pee Potter. Abracadabra indeed.
Best of all, I'm no longer very slightly inconvenienced at social functions. Sure, every place has a bathroom and peeing takes five seconds, even for a lady, but who needs a bathroom when you can just take some pills and the wee disappears!? Where does it go? Another dimension? A homunculus stored in a warehouse? The Chinese? My bloodstream? I don't know and I don't care.
There are drawbacks. I no longer salivate and my skin has turned orange, I bleed from my nipples, I have waking dreams of apocalyptic murder sprees, constant raw-butt diarrhea, projectile sleep vomiting, and I am no longer able to recognize faces. I suffer sleeplessness, nightly visits from snake-headed demons, I'm able to see the spirits of the recently deceased, I experience crippling restless leg syndrome, and all of my hair has fallen out except for the hair in my bikini area, which has grown much thicker, longer, and twice as lustrous. A small price to pay for having my freedom back. Thanks, Detrol LA!
The guns are gone. Now what happens to all those paper targets? Don't tell me you forgot about the paper targets. The ones hanging from little clips on fancy clotheslines at shooting ranges. With no guns to destroy these legions of paper bastards, they go unchecked.
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