A nod to Lord Ellpus as we discuss the art of peeing

Lord Ellpus started a thread about peeing in England and how he and his fellow blokes pee on the side of the road. It was an interesting thread but I thought I would start this thread for the Americans to discuss their peeing habits.


A boy such as myself, raised in a northern climate, could not wait for the approach of winter because it was then, once the snow fell, that one could drink prodigious amounts of water and race outside to create artwork in the snow.

Most boys lacked imagination and simply pissed their names in crude fashion in the snow. I would come across such creations, like the time George Gerherdson had made a feeble attempt to write his name, but his weak bladder left Georg...dribble....dribble....e....G... and then the weak dribbles at the end where he had run out of steam. I could see long striding footsteps in the snow, running away from the aberration, almost as if George, ashamed and humiliated by his pathetic effort, had raced home to hurl himself on his bed and cry his eyes out.

Because of my rare ability to hold on for days I was able to create some masterpieces in the snow. I remember one particular time where I recreated the famous painting of the Last Supper. Working from right to left I quickly peed the images of the dudes into the snow. As I neared completion I realized I was running out of "paint", so I rushed to finish the last guy (the guy in the blue robe who leaned across the table, intently listen to Christ's every word) and I did a rather crude and embarrassingly amateurish job of creating his right arm and hand, then swiftly moved to sign my name and managed to sign "Gustav Ratzenhofer" in a beautiful cursive fashion.

I stood back to admire my handiwork and had to admit it was my greatest creation. I raced back to town and grabbed a bunch of my friends and brought them back to show them the masterpiece, but upon our return to the site, I was shocked to discover that a passing herd of white-tailed deer had ravaged the snow, leaving only the head of Christ visible amongst the myriad of cloven hoofprints.

Billy Johnson snorted and said, "Real cool, Gustav" and then stepped forward and kicked the head of Christ and "poof" a small cloud of snow swirled in the air, settled, and any evidence of my magnum opus was gone. Nothing but the memory which, to this day, still swirls in my mind.

I was at the hardware store last week and the clerk at the counter cleared his throat and said, "Gus. I asked you how many of these carriage bolts you wanted."

I had been standing at the counter, lost in thought, and hadn't heard his question.

I had been thinking back to years gone by, when young Ratzenhofer stood in a snow covered field, penis in hand, and admired the Last Supper.