Excuse me? You! Yes you!
That’s right, you know I’m there, walking down the street just two small intersections from my own. You also probably know where my house is, you’re there about three times a week, we sometimes nod if I’m out in the garden of if you’re pushing your junk mail-laden trolley up the hill.
Now I’m not going to judge you. From our previous encounters, you’re friendly, relatively conscientious (although from where I’m standing, some of the catalogues you shove into mailboxes all over the neighbourhood could be better inserted) and you’re doing your job. This role involves collecting sales brochures, the local paper, the shopping centre advertising and shunting them into small slots all over your 2-kilometre working track.
I get that. Well done, you!
What I don’t need to see, for the second time in a month, is you urinating on a neighbour’s wire fence/attractive hedge display.
Let’s face it. You’re older than me. You’re male, okay, and I understand you have that amazing penile projection capacity to unzipper your wares and wave the wee-wand willy to the world and wherever. You don’t have to hitch-up skirts, hoist-back pantyhose, isometrically contract quadriceps in squat preparation or do a gymnastics bridge for fear of squirting your dacks.
You can just point and press. That’s great, it’s a miracle of your anatomy, it’s a stand up, convenient wee-in-a-waterfall.
Lucky you.
I don’t really need to see your buttock crack smiling above your semi-reclined waistline. Nor do I need to recognize (by the giveaway slant of your spine) what you are doing. I definitely don’t need to hear the remarkable sounds of your urine hitting my neighbour’s hedge, nor do I WANT TO see a resounding shake or HEAR the satisfying zing of your zipper as it ascends over the speed bump.
Time and place, mister.
Most readers understand the notion of urgency. Many of us have:
a. pelvic floors that have seen better days
b. children who need to visit the toilet with immediacy
c. ability to drink large quantities of beer/water/wine/water/gin
d. (a) and (b) above
so we realize the old adage — when you need to go, you need to go. However, we are very close to a couple of parks. Only one has a public loo, but there are plenty of trees, cloistered coverings of brush, sneaky holes of privacy to which you can avail your urea to the environment. Piss in the park rather than wiss on the wisteria.
Some of you may suggest that I avert my eyes. Believe me, I do, but if you are a regular walker, you’ll appreciate the need to look ahead for traffic, other dogs (not just the junk mail guy weeing on the treeing) cracks in the jeans … er, sorry in the footpath. Often, I’m almost on top of this ranger before I notice what he’s doing, then in my haste to look away now, I’m almost part of his final shakedown prior to zippage.
Our streets are not busy, but they’re suburban. Our gardens were in drought, but not needing any extra acidity from this mature bloke’s hydraulic pump. Our people (ie: me) are not prissy, but they don’t need a dogwalker’s guide to a yellow fountain of sunshine for the second time in the same place.
Look. If this gentleman has prostrate probs, I’ll happily apologize for the small rant in this post, but meanwhile, get to your doctor, get a gloved finger where the sun don’t shine and please, please, go to the dunny before you start handling your junk … um, apologies, our junk mail.
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8 Responses to Mondayitis – On Urination
As you may recall I grew up on Windy Hill in the days of BYO esky crammed with full-strength beer. As a consequence, when the final siren sounded it heralded the mass exodus. It also alerted my parents to usher their daughters indoors, away from windows facing the street. Because, very soon, a special sort of parade would begin where slightly intoxicated footy fans would begin to urinate in the street, on the street trees, between parked cars and even in our front yard. Dad would patrol the front garden with a very large yard broom, daring the would-be urinaters to breech our boundaries.We did giggle at these brazen men. But now, as a grown woman with an over-worked pelvic floor, it is neither appropriate nor acceptable. Women are sensible about these matters as are most men. A little forward planning is all that is required. I’m with you, sista, it’s not okay.
LOL @ that story and image of your dad on patrol with the yard broom. How wonderful, I can just imagine that! They’d all be wearing the black and red too, probably.
Rosie recently posted..Coming Soon- The iPartner 2011
Eew!! I’m just thinking about the junk mail delivered after the emptying of the bladder. I’ll bet he doesn’t have a bottle of hand sanitiser to use after he’s done his business. And then he goes on to deliver contaminated advertising material into your letterbox. EEEEWWWW!!!!!
I’m putting out some dettol handwash on top of the letter box. Hope he gets the hint?
Rosie recently posted..Coming Soon- The iPartner 2011
Oh, you make me laugh, dahlin *g* Not that I’m not sympathetic to your predicament, but ZOMGROFL!If you’re this pissed (pardon the pun) imagine the poor owner of teh_fence? Oy. Do es he/she know? I’d be partial to electrification (of the fence) *nods*
What a shocking, revolting idea lady. ONE THAT I LOVE, FOR SURE! Get the electrical wattage happening, once he comes along and waggles his wet intentions over the *zapped* fence, he’ll be doing a (Final Break) Michael Scofield, bb.
Rosie recently posted..Coming Soon- The iPartner 2011
I think you could actually get him cited for indecent exposure if you really wanted. Do you really want to though, that’s the question? I don’t know what the laws are down there, but public urination in a place that’s is probably near to where children could, y’know walk by, skate by, jump rope by… that’s something someone would get arrested for up here, but we’re notorious prudes. Oh, it’s also gross! *shudders*
It is gross, hon. I’m not sure that I would be bothered with taking it further. I’d also like to believe that I was brave enough to tell him to move on if I saw him do it again.
Rosie recently posted..Coming Soon- The iPartner 2011