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Pissing in the Sink
A True Story by El
I STOOD ABOVE the sink of the restaurant’s men’s room, pisser in my hands, attempting to trace the origins of my unusual behavior. And then, as instantaneously as a flash of blinding light, it hit me.
I was fourteen-years-old the summer I caught my grandfather pissing in the sink. He was a cross-country bus driver for Suburban and, every morning, he arose at approximately four o’clock to ready himself for work. Howard Harris remained faithful to my grandmother for as long as he lived, but he did keep a robust and poorly hidden collection of pornographic videos. Ghetto Princess was my favorite. Talking to her sexually challenged partner before performing oral sex, the Ghetto Princess says, “I hope you can get it UP tonight,” to which the male whore responds, very lackadaisically, “Why you always talkin’ sh*t? Just shut up and suck the dick, woman.” They both had fluffy Afros, indicating that the film most likely dated back to the early Eighties or late Seventies.
New Jersey summer nights begin at seven and go on until sunrise. My cousin, Bernell, and his older brother had a fistfight that night. He called his brother a “b*tch ass ******,” or something to that effect, to which the brother took grave offense. Bernell wrestled his older brother to the ground and swung a magnificent three-piece combo, connecting every blow to his brother’s ribs and sealing the deal with a winding-fisted left jab to the jawbone. Defenseless and shamed in battle, the older brother yelled for help and my grandmother came running into the kitchen, where the fight transpired.
She said, “What y’all doin’ keepin’ uppa awl dis naws?”
The noise came from Bernell’s swearing and my laughing at the scuffle. Grandma punished us all by making us go to bed. Or so she thought.
When it comes to family, ties are renewed as quickly as they are severed. My two cousins made up and, after their fiercely competitive exchange of mama jokes—which was pointless, since they both have the same mother—we were bored out of our minds. Being the most innocent of the three, my cousins charged me with the task of sneaking into grandma’s room and borrowing Mr. Howard’s Ghetto Princess. I’m a good liar, so they figured I’d at least be able to lie my way out of the situation in the event of me waking our grandparents.
I snuck in and retrieved the videotape. It wasn’t that difficult. Mr. Howard kept his porn stashed in a plastic bag underneath the recliner he enthroned himself upon while watching Matlock, The Price Is Right, and other old people shows.
My cousins and I watched the porno flick... twice.
In the wee hours of the New Jersey summer night, natured called and, suddenly, I had to take a piss. Bernell slept wildly on the floor with his limbs contorted in every possible direction while his older brother lay passed out on the bottom bunk. I climbed from the top bunk and tiptoed my way into the kitchen. Half sleep and half conscious, I made my way to the bathroom. I heard running water behind the cracked wooden door. Mindlessly disregarding this, I opened the door. Before me stood Mr. Howard: six-foot-two, old and scraggly as ever, with his shriveled penis hanging grossly over the sink.
Caught in his crime, he looked at me, infuriated, and said, “Scotty? Whatcha doin’? I’m tryna wash up and get ready for work now! Go to bed!”
I sat in the kitchen waiting for Mr. Howard to finish in the bathroom. When he finally did, before entering his room, he looked back at me in disgust and shook his head. Upon entering the bathroom, I pissed, flushed, and conducted an investigation. The sink smelled like urine. Mr. Howard was guilty as charged.
Sickening as his behavior was, I emulated Mr. Howard. To this day, whenever I’m at a restaurant with bad service, or any establishment for that matter, I make my way to the men’s room to “wash my hands.” When I’m in there, I piss in the sink. It gives one a sinister sense of victory over the perpetrators of poor customer service.
After reflecting on how it all began, my leak was over. I zipped up, washed my hands, and re-joined my girlfriend for dinner.
A True Story by El
I STOOD ABOVE the sink of the restaurant’s men’s room, pisser in my hands, attempting to trace the origins of my unusual behavior. And then, as instantaneously as a flash of blinding light, it hit me.
I was fourteen-years-old the summer I caught my grandfather pissing in the sink. He was a cross-country bus driver for Suburban and, every morning, he arose at approximately four o’clock to ready himself for work. Howard Harris remained faithful to my grandmother for as long as he lived, but he did keep a robust and poorly hidden collection of pornographic videos. Ghetto Princess was my favorite. Talking to her sexually challenged partner before performing oral sex, the Ghetto Princess says, “I hope you can get it UP tonight,” to which the male whore responds, very lackadaisically, “Why you always talkin’ sh*t? Just shut up and suck the dick, woman.” They both had fluffy Afros, indicating that the film most likely dated back to the early Eighties or late Seventies.
New Jersey summer nights begin at seven and go on until sunrise. My cousin, Bernell, and his older brother had a fistfight that night. He called his brother a “b*tch ass ******,” or something to that effect, to which the brother took grave offense. Bernell wrestled his older brother to the ground and swung a magnificent three-piece combo, connecting every blow to his brother’s ribs and sealing the deal with a winding-fisted left jab to the jawbone. Defenseless and shamed in battle, the older brother yelled for help and my grandmother came running into the kitchen, where the fight transpired.
She said, “What y’all doin’ keepin’ uppa awl dis naws?”
The noise came from Bernell’s swearing and my laughing at the scuffle. Grandma punished us all by making us go to bed. Or so she thought.
When it comes to family, ties are renewed as quickly as they are severed. My two cousins made up and, after their fiercely competitive exchange of mama jokes—which was pointless, since they both have the same mother—we were bored out of our minds. Being the most innocent of the three, my cousins charged me with the task of sneaking into grandma’s room and borrowing Mr. Howard’s Ghetto Princess. I’m a good liar, so they figured I’d at least be able to lie my way out of the situation in the event of me waking our grandparents.
I snuck in and retrieved the videotape. It wasn’t that difficult. Mr. Howard kept his porn stashed in a plastic bag underneath the recliner he enthroned himself upon while watching Matlock, The Price Is Right, and other old people shows.
My cousins and I watched the porno flick... twice.
In the wee hours of the New Jersey summer night, natured called and, suddenly, I had to take a piss. Bernell slept wildly on the floor with his limbs contorted in every possible direction while his older brother lay passed out on the bottom bunk. I climbed from the top bunk and tiptoed my way into the kitchen. Half sleep and half conscious, I made my way to the bathroom. I heard running water behind the cracked wooden door. Mindlessly disregarding this, I opened the door. Before me stood Mr. Howard: six-foot-two, old and scraggly as ever, with his shriveled penis hanging grossly over the sink.
Caught in his crime, he looked at me, infuriated, and said, “Scotty? Whatcha doin’? I’m tryna wash up and get ready for work now! Go to bed!”
I sat in the kitchen waiting for Mr. Howard to finish in the bathroom. When he finally did, before entering his room, he looked back at me in disgust and shook his head. Upon entering the bathroom, I pissed, flushed, and conducted an investigation. The sink smelled like urine. Mr. Howard was guilty as charged.
Sickening as his behavior was, I emulated Mr. Howard. To this day, whenever I’m at a restaurant with bad service, or any establishment for that matter, I make my way to the men’s room to “wash my hands.” When I’m in there, I piss in the sink. It gives one a sinister sense of victory over the perpetrators of poor customer service.
After reflecting on how it all began, my leak was over. I zipped up, washed my hands, and re-joined my girlfriend for dinner.
ACK!
uuhh me.
, more style, more mess, and they know theyve got a problem that requires more than just calling maintenance.
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