Men have it so easy...

I think it's pretty unfair that everytime I go to a bar, I hear women complain, "Men have it so easy... they can pee wherever they want." What women don't know is that with great power comes great responsibility. Well, as a responsible package-toting individual, I know the benefits that having the right plumbing brings. You look at the bathrooms, girls are 43 deep in the line... guys? 4 to a sink.

But I don't think most of the problem is the equipment, but the actual priorities you have to go pee. For example, after a long night of drinking, women have to have a checklist filled out just to qualify fit to go number 1. They need proper privacy, like the stall has to have a working lock. Next, they need enough toilet paper to gift wrap the seat... WHICH THEY'RE GOING TO HOVER OVER ANYWAYS. And after that, apparently the toilet has to actually flush. With all that, you might as well just stuff a shotglass in it and forget you even tried.

For me, I only need two essentials for a drunken pee session: One, something to lean on... because my two legs aren't going to get the job done at 2:30AM. Far be it a stall, a wall or a random 4-legged bathroom teammate that's throwing up in the sink; there has to be something to steady the stream. Second thing, I need a target. But of course, it's not the same target the whole night. What fun would that be?
First trip, 8pm bathroom run means happy hour just ended... breaking the seal... I'm thinking focus on that toilet cake...make as much blue as possible. That's right. Every guy know what I'm talking about. Fire the laser...bullseye. Mission accomplished.

Then, after a few more rounds, the night is picking up, the 11PM urge hits and I'm thinking like Kobe Bryant. I'm in the zone, like shooting a three-pointer (and almost the same distance because I'm using the unnecessary handicapped stall). Just visualize, steady the hand... nothing but toilet*. (*Note, doesn't have to be in the toilet, just as long as I'm striking SOME porcelin).

Finally, 3AM strikes. I've got one good eye, half a cigarette-flavored jagerbomb in my hand that I FOUND and a "Dude, I have like the funniest 'Your mama' joke everrr" that no one wants to hear. So, i'm fighting my way upstream through the traffic of wasted faces, hellbent on finding the Promise Land... a drain inside the bathroom. Any drain.

After pissing off everyone and their mother and dishing out a few hundred "excuse me's", I get there. A toilet with my name on it. Eyes closed... one knee locked...slumped against the toilet paper dispenser...ahhhh. Finally, my night's complete. And then I leave the stall...

"UM... WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE??"

"Huh? Dude, I'm sooooo drunk. But that piss was so worth it."

"Ewww... you're so gross! You didn't even unbutton your pants!"

"No, it's cool... I flushed."

Canes aren't Abel.

So, I recently had knee surgery. And it was legitimate knee surgery... arthroooooscopic...the kind that pros like Tiger Woods require after hitting golfballs most of your life. Or because your no-longer clueless wife decided that you should wear the Escalade instead of that red Nike shirt for Thanksgiving this year.

I mean, I consider myself in my athletic prime. I actually tore some cartlidge making a blockbuster trade in one of the 12 fantasy football leagues I DON'T pay for... because then it we gambling... and that would say I have a serious vice.

It was actually a very quick procedure. Doctor Cohen-Bernstein-Weissenheimer shakes your hand, you go under long enough to miss Sex in the City 2, and before you know it, Nurse Betty is pushing you down the ramp in the direction of the nearest Carvel. However, upon my departure, I was expecting some low grade wood crutches... the kind that are guaranteed to rub the top 4 layers of armpit skin off or your next skin irritation is free. But Dr. Kosher told me "Oh, you won't be needing those... we're gonna set you up with a CANE." A Cane??!! What the hell is that? Doc, I NEED those crutches. When you have crutches, people hold doors open for you... they carry your groceries for you... they let you have the remote on Gilmore Girls/Ice Road Truckers night! You are OFFICIALLY injured if you have crutches.

A cane means "Oh, I have a club foot... and at some point, I'm gonna probably hang this thing over the back of the dining room chair and misplace it." You shouldn't be using a cane if you have less than 4 liverspots on the back of your cane hand. THIS IS BULLSHIT. If you're not going to give me a pair of crutches, then at least give me something cooler than a peg-adjustable geriatric cane. How bout a sorcerer's staff? I'm a tall guy... it's just plain better support, right? I've also been known to cast a spell or lead some of God's chosen out of Egypt. That's right. You didn't ask before, but my name full name is actually Joses. Don't laugh. It's Biblical. Look it up. And a staff is no joke. You can get people to listen with one of those thundersticks, any time of day.

My roommate is like "Hey, what's up with the stick, Joe?"

"YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"

"Um, what?"

"LET MY PEOPLE GO!"

"What does that have to do with anything we're talking about?"

"GRYFFINDOR HOUSE!!!!"

"............"

"Oh, hey man, by the way, can you hold the door and carry the groceries into the house? I'm totally watching Ice Road Truckers tonight."

Mustache

It's true people always talk about wanting something they can never have. How the grass is always greener on the other side... and that other side, is where people can grow mustaches. Thanks to thousands of years of asian heritage, melted down into my face that can muster as much stubble as a 12 year old burn victim. Think about how much instant respect people get from having one. I mean, you think about Teddy Roosevelt, Don Mattingly... Tom Selleck. They're all standing in that greener grass, right?

So, my ex girlfriend, who was a very sensitive, nourishing type, would constantly hound me to have the deepest, most intimate conversations so she would feel like we were connecting between episodes of Grey's. However, right before we actually broke it off, she found me sighing one day and she swoops down next to me on the couch, asking "What's wrong? I can sense your carrying around some real burdening emotions." And i tried to play the tough guy role and just give some bs answer about the snack machine eating my dollar. But not buying it, she went in for the embracing, both-hands-on-my-cheeks-followed-by-the-eye-to-eye-stare, "You can tell me, baby." So, being honest, I spilled it to her... I feel like people don't respect me because I can't grow a mustache. She countered me with "Ohhhh... well, you don't need facial hair to command the room or have people respect you." Of course she was right, but I told her "I just wish people would look at me the way they look at your mother."