I’d be lying if I said that first seal-breaking beer piss isn’t my favorite moment in this pure life. A simple man with simple pleasures. I’d have that phrase tattooed under my tits if I wasn’t so afraid of needles and body artists. These bone-in Wild Wings are already dive-bombing my stomach, I’d hardly scooted out from the bar before they’ve started to melt down my clogged tracts. Waxed with cream sauces and oils, i’m indiscriminate about the flavors, i’ve tried them all. Hard to digest, yet necessary on the acids. I pride myself on my Ford-Tough™ immune system.
This piss is mostly savory because I never have to miss a moment of the game. Urinal Television sets built into the walls, the height of American will and technology. No worries about glancing at your neighbor’s member, we’re all sucked into the tasks at hand. I’m ashamed to admit i’ve left more than a few drops on my shoes before when I got too excited and had another one of those involuntary cheering spells. I’m a whore for the magic, what can I say? I paint my face for the team I live five states away from.
Color me surprised when the subject matter gets serious. Ten seconds ago we were down a yard from a touchdown before the end of the third quarter. Bladder was screaming, hadn’t pissed since I left home. Comforted by the screens in the bathroom, it didn’t feel like too big of a deal. The Boys™ can hear my cheers through the door. Not exactly a chaos moment.
The News is screaming on TV, the volume turned up and echoing in the stalls, i’m the only one here. Missiles flying from over the coast, major metropolitan areas hitting bomb shelters and State-Of-Emergency evacuation measures. Looting on helicopter-cams, panic in the streets, prayers in the sheets. A pre-recorded Cold War era Country goodbye marches onscreen, anthem fluted in the background while the White House fades into static. Did we get the touchdown or not?
Outside the bathroom door everything’s in slow motion. I started to feel that fourth draft Stout, a hot little bit of piss stream dribbled down my leg. Screams around, people ducking under the tables calling loved ones, a great big push out the front door. The Boys™ are waving me over under the pool table, one’s crying like a little bitch. To my right is the kitchen, the last vestige of opportunity.
No cooks left in here, all abandoned ship disloyal. God left me this plate of perfectly preserved, fresh Barbecue wings sitting artisanal before getting sent to another crowd of beer bellies. Boneless, but i’ll deal. I don’t need to wash my hands anymore, nobody’s looking. The soft sauce burns my fingertips when I pull a wing up to my lips. Every morsel of flash-frozen skin cracking juicy under my teeth. A single tear traces down my cheek as the sky goes yellow. At least I died doing what I loved.