Who Made This Self Referential Hell?

God rested on the Seventh Day, because Saturday night was a banger as the kids say. A real wild one. I can only imagine how hard it was to create a world in a week’s time. The forty hour work week had yet to be invented, so God had to work overtime. They even had to work weekends. By the time, they got around to designing the male plumbing, God discovered wine and whiskey.

Imagine making all the mountains and seas, the great blue skies. All this without benefit of a blender or Jimmy Buffet song. Male plumbing was obvious a last minute idea. Deep in their cups, the Creator looked at Man as a working draft. What was missing here? The first man, Adam, looked like Ken, completely bare and smooth down there. In what must have been a drunken moment of whimsy, after creating the snake, God thought, Why don’t I slap one of those things on him?

And I will give this thing a mind of its own. I will make it grow, perhaps doubling in size. I will make shrink in cold water. I will connect it to a giant bladder with a narrow urethra, and fill this creation with dreams and urine, so that in the morning, this “Man” will wake from his dream, thinking about a beautiful woman ( or man), and this last minute addition, this punchline, will become the elephant in the room, as Man will need to pee so bad that getting up becomes more important than getting it up.

Consider this last minute joke, one of the only times that God did blue, as his best material, as her greatest invention. It will present a challenge and an opportunity, all in one package. What a package! Literally a self referential hell, packed into an expandable snake like thingy. And having come up with this comedy gold, God rested, and thought what else? Is there anything we could make that could give this man thing a run for its money?

So on the seventh day, just about the crack of dawn, before even creating coffee, God made religion. And they laughed and laughed and laughed.

I woke at five something, and knew I had to get up, but didn’t want to wake my bothersome dog or my beloved wife. So I lay back and tried to sleep. But God’s joke, the gift that keeps giving, insisted. Gently and genetically it insisted. Implored me to rise and explore. Pushed me from my prone position. I could hold my pee no longer, so I grabbed my phone, the modern equivalent to carrying the Montgomery Ward catalog to the outhouse for a little light reading, and headed to the bathroom.

Opening up Facebook, I thought, who is going to be dead today. Lucky for me, there were no new bodies, but there were plenty of memories posted by the survivors of last month’s fallen. Thankfully there was also the humour of random memes. My friend Anne posted the following:

Which made me laugh. Which constricted the passage of urine from my useless appendage, God’s inside joke. Have to laugh and pee, but not being able to do one without compromising the other, I had to concentrate, as only a 66 year old man can do. I often joke that I should drink more water, instead preferring to hold on to my urine until it becomes a thick concentrate. Make it spreadable. Too much?

I am sitting there, yes sitting there, as my Mother of five boys and a husband taught all her sons to sit and pee, thereby helping to reduce how much errant pee she would need to clean up, smart woman, my Mother. Being a man, I often rebel. I feel the calling to do standup from time to time.

It is both a sweet release and a physical relief. There is nothing more satisfying than having a pee outdoors in nature. Getting back to the land, setting my soul and bladder free. Letting my freak flag fly.

Oh Christ. I hear the dog moving about, waking up Michelle, who has to get out of bed to let the dog out. Now Maisy is up and pacing. Which means I have to get up from my throne and get moving with my day.

But first I have to respond to Anne’s post, and come up with the following:

I would like to say Taylor did it, but it was all on me. Sometimes we find ourselves in a situation where we wonder how it happened and if there was anything we could have done differently to avoid putting ourselves in such a situation.

Needless to say, I was a bit embarrassed by how it all turned out. Driving at full speed while listening to the Judys, in an orange Challenger, was the fulfillment of a childhood fantasy- learning to fly.

Please note that while the car ended up stranded atop the median, nobody was actually harmed in the resulting accident. We laughed about it, the cops included.

It’s a strange world we live in, but when a middle age man wants to fly, he has two choices. Get a Dodge Challenger, or grow wings.

Thinking myself clever, I cut and pasted my joke to my page. I call that recycling. Now having had an hour of laughing to myself, I decide to milk it by writing a longer piece as a post. Writing is the gift that keeps giving. Laughing at my own jokes. Don’t forget that your patronage is always welcome. My posts are always a free, but if you feel guilty about always being on the guest list, you are welcome to buy a round for the band.

I put my sweat pants on, shoes etc, and grabbed her leash and the dog and head on out. Maisy, who has been pacing since Michelle turned her out, now puts on the brakes. What? I’m supposed to walk outside and pee? Isn’t that what the diaper is for, as she stops in the middle of the hallway, filling up her diaper.

Can’t you wait until we get outside? I try to tell her about the beauty of urinating in public, but she is having none of it. I pull her into the elevator. I’m looking down at her, and she is melting into the floor of the elevator.

I am thinking about the heavy choices we are facing with this demented little dog, and then I wonder why the elevator is so quiet.

It appears we are not actually moving. Someone in authority neglected to choose a floor. To be blunt, it was I who did not push the ground floor button, so we are trapped in the elevator, stuck on the floor in which we just got on, not going anywhere fast. D’oh.

Who is the demented one here, Maisy voicelessly enquires.