Taking the Piss

People round the old ‘ffice call me “Race Horse” for a couple reasons. 1. I never piss, unless my tank is full (causes a powerful stream), and 2. I’m hung like freakin’ Rachel Alexandra (upon further research, I was disappointed to have discovered that Rachel Alexandra is, in fact, a mare, or a female horse for you ‘tards out there.

This got me thinking; why is it that every time I wanna relieve myself in a men’s WC, do I have to be cool sharing my winky with any dude, no matter the dude? It’s total Rachel Alexandra sized horse shit. Women have the benefit of having their own individual stalls to spread their wings and let fly. Yet, for some reason, I’ve gotta prove that my dickenballs don’t embarrass me?

Say I walk into the bathroom with DelRay from accounting. DelRay expects that I’ll be comfortable enough putting my jewellies on display for him, or anyone else who might be present, to judge. Fuck DelRay, I’ll use the stall. On top of that, I’m gonna sit down, pop a squat, and take a leak. It’s my god given right.

If you think I’m being a pussy about it, let me ask the female readers a question. Would it be ok if we allowed you to keep your precious porcelain tinkle receptacles, but stripped down your private stall walls? You think you could handle that? Because there’s no difference between that, and taking an 11×11 photo of your cooter and plastering it to your face for the entire pissoir going public to enjoy.

Marinate on that, urinal jockey.

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