Gotta Go... Gotta Go...

    One man's "going problem" is another man's dumb waiter. 

 

    A while back, I wrote an entry about women and their eternal struggles with deodorant.  Now, I think it's time to turn the tables and discuss one of the myriad of problems plaguing men.  And, apparently, that problem is constantly having the urge to tinkle. 

 

    Now, when a man has to go, a man has to go, and, trust me on this ladies, when that urge strikes, the last thought to enter a man's mind is: "Gee...  I have to pee again.  Is there a nice, clean bathroom around here anywhere?"  Nope.  He's thinking: "Gee...  Those petunias she made me plant over by the garage look awfully pretty.  I think I'll see how feels to use a bathroom that actually has real flowers in it for once."

 

   Anyway, the Flomax commercials put together by the tinkle-police show a group of four men cruising along in a convertable happily drinking bottled water.  Now, I'm willing to bet that the guy on Flomax --let's call him Bob-- is driving along thinking, "Thank God I don't have to pee."  However, the other three men are thinking, "I wish that idiot Bob wasn't taking Flomax.  I want to stop.  We've passed five bars on this road trip, this bottled water is piss-warm, and I sure could use a cold beer.  Whose dumb idea was it to bring Bob and his Flomax?" 

   

   Now, if you think I am being too harsh, consider what happened to me last Sunday while watching football with my friend John:

 

    Shortly before kick-off, John dropped in with a case of beer, and we grabbed our seats, opened our beers and watched the kick off.  We cheered, we cursed, and we drank our beers.  It was going perfectly fine until my bottle was painfully, mysteriously empty, and the following conversation  ensued:

 

    "You gettin' up?"  I asked setting my empty bottle down with a thud.

    "Nope," John said.  "But, if you're getting up, grab me a beer too."

    "I'm not getting up you lazy bastard."  I said sharply.  "Besides, I was finished first."

    "I bought the beer," he said as he set his empty bottle down.

    "So," I responded.  "It's my TV."

    

    From there, he and I descended into childish bickering until a commercial allowed us a brief window of time to mash out a quick game of Rock, Paper, Scissors" to decide who would get up (I lost, dammit).

 

    Now, just imagine how different that whole situation would have played out had my friend John had an uncontrolled "going" problem:

 

    "You gettin' up?"  I ask setting my empty bottle down with a thud.

    "Yeah," John says.  "You need another one?"

    "Yep." 

   

    See?  Rather than drive our friendship to the brink of violence, the absence of Flomax has only strengthened things to the point where I am now able to develop a symbiotic relationship with my friend John and his troubled prostate out of sheer selfish laziness.  Indeed, what we have now is something which transcends simple friendship.  Because of his "going" problem, John is now my slave, and my life is made much easier because of it.   It's as if Nature intended it, and who am I to argue with Nature?

 

-DP