At prow of the HMS Ark Royal, sea churning below, you feel uniquely alive. Memories of Monaco
flit by: the brief affair, the promised return, the broken sofa. Squinting into the warm Mediterranean sun, all is well. But wait: the weather is fair. The sea is calm. The churning comes from within!
Quickly, Captain, to the lavish head in your quarters. The vessel tilts starboard under your weight… too far to run! Luckily, you came prepared: fastening the Uribag Portable Urinal to your hearty tackle, you relieve yourself as your God and your Queen would do: into a rubber bag. The seas are calm once more. What ho, men! To Monaco once more!
So, honest question here: do big people have to pee more urgently than the rest of us? Sure, we've all had times when nature was ringing off the hook, but a general trait of adulthood is the foresight to find a tinklebox before you pee on yaself. Perhaps the lumbering gait of the XL prohibits this action, but what are they gonna do? Step into the nearest closet and stick their dick in a lil' rubber football? Seems like the can can't be that far…
A balmy afternoon in Isandlwana: you lie in your high-capacity hammock, fanning your flushed face with your pith helmet, scanning the treeline for negroes. Suddenly, the snap of a twig. You turn, and there he is: the great Zulu warlord Shaka, spear poised, white teeth glinting in the sunlight.
Keeping your delicate poise, you reach below, searching for the feel of your revolver. You grasp the steel and raise it before you… but what's this? It's not your revolver at all, but the Pistol Grip No Bend Toenail Clipper! Your eyes lock with his. Slowly, he lowers his spear and extends his calloused foot. A hangnail! Grasping the paw of the savage, you make short work of his ailment, and he leaps like a gazelle into the jungle. For the moment, peace.
Even aside from the medical bills, being extra large seems pretty expensive. Eighty bucks to trim your toenails? They only charge twenty for my dog, and she gets washed and groomed to boot. I should add that I'm having some difficulty picturing a situation where a person's hand could not reach their foot in any configuration. We're talkin' big.
Sophistication. You can't define it, but you know it when you see it. You saw it when you nursed tall flutes of Mountain Dew with Scotty and Zelda Fitzgerald at La Paix. You saw it when you played foosball with Harold Ramis on the deck of the Enterprise. At Hemingway's hunting lodge, you tasted it, veal juice dripping down your chin and pooling in your belly button, Isadora Duncan winking slyly at you as you scooped it out with a five-cent comb.
Living the celebrity lifestyle, you've got no time for smearage. "Here," Orson Welles told you as you basked in one of Xanadu's many aviaries. "Take my Self Wipe Personal Toilet Aid." And you did. Cool as a cucumber, clean as a whistle. Thanks, Orsie.
It seems like it would occur to a person, as they wrapped toilet paper around the head of their toilet wand, that something was amiss. "Orf," they'd groan, straining to reach their foulment, "carn't reach 'er." Solving this problem with a product almost seems counterproductive, doesn't it? Maybe if this thing didn't exist, people would be forced to say, "that's it, no more yum yums 'til I can reach my butt again."
One roommate's art-fueled movement goes terribly wrong.
Emma Stone was the most paranoid person I had ever met. In private she wore a full suit of medieval armor at all times, visor down.
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