(Nested (Parenthesis)) or, Drink Drank Drunk

Important preface, if you are in any way biologically related to me you may skip this post. Seriously. It will probably be better all around. Still with me? So be it. You have been warned. So, the usual Sunday gaming group , which occupies, appropriately enough most of my Sundays got cancelled tonight. In it's absence, I decided to take up my boss on his invitation to join him, and several other Marketplace dwellers for an evening of drinking. (To that effect, I apologize in advance if this post lacks my usual cogency (whatever you might define that to be), I was slightly buzzed upon returning home and decided the best way to proceed was with a tall cool glass of absinthe.) The highlight of my evening had to be reading the Urban Dictionary definition of the sex act 'Donkey Punching' to a table full of my peers in a dry British narrators voice. Good times. Alas from there it went ever so slightly downhill. I have learned hat one of my Boss's favorite topics of discussion, at least in my presence, (dear God, I hope it is only in my presence) is my penis, good old reliable Herr Wangenstein. It is, at least according to Marketplace lore, eight and a half feet long and entirely prehensile. (The cynical part of me wonders if this might in fact be his attempt to diffuse me as a romantic rival, since after that particular build up, nearly anything I pack in the old trousers would be a (nearly) guaranteed disappointment (Thank the Gods this blog underscores spelling errors, absinthe apparently messily murders my ability to type)). Indeed this lance I pack (Indeed it was remarked I must favor woman of color because as a White Knight I needs must joust a Black Knight to stay in keeping with the traditional forms.) has, at least according to Marketplace lore, been many a fantastical place including but not limited to a gang of midgets, many an unwary passerby (of both genders), possibly even you, right now (It's just that sneaky). Now, Herr Wangenstein is a faithful companion, and it has indeed taken me on some nearly surreal adventures, but honestly, there is only so long a man can awkwardly smile and nod whilst his junk is speculated upon. Five minutes was about my limit. Alas nearly half an hour (Possibly more actually, I wasn't timing) was dedicated solely to my wang (Normally, of course a mere half hour wouldn't be enough (ladies) but this was entirely conversational. Quite a different matter.). I did try to remain a game sport, even adding to the lore where appropriate (There are, on the balance, worse things to be known for after all) but eventually, the time came to extricate myself from the situation, nearly everyone else had already left, my boss was in the company of a young woman and, if I might momentarily co-opt the coarse vernacular of the common man, he had that shit on lock. So I gave my regrets, and beat a hasty retreat. Why, oh why did I not hit the restroom before I left? I was of course a wee bit buzzed, (I believe this has been established) a common side effect to access to free booze, and so during the drive home (after stopping at a Taco Bell to sop some of that liquor up with reconstituted meat related by-product meal) I realized the deep need to void my bladder, the primal, powerful version that only alcohol can truly provide. A burning that stretched from the reservoir of my bladder to the very tip of Herr Wangenstein, (Filling thereby all eight and a half prehensile feet of it, (Needless to say that is a lot) with the mighty urge to urinate on whatever happened to be at hand). My world, gentle reader, was one of pain. Apocalyptic agony surging through every fiber of my being (or at least those fibers located around my crotchal region), A level of pain that told me that surely, although death was stalking me, it would not, indeed could not come fast enough. Worry not gentle reader, I made it to a Wal-Mart (24/7 yo) before my innards burst, leaving a rather large greasy smear on the interior of my van (one with an eight and a half foot long fully prehensile appendage of dubious origin no less). And... Actually, I'm not entirely certain there is an and... if there was a point to this exercise I fear the green fairy took flight with it in tow some time ago..... I shall instead end abruptly with a word of sage advice, remember kids, sage advice from a drunken man is about as useful as a dildo-gram to a puritanical household (which is to say your mileage may vary). Important postscript, If you are in any way related to me and still reading this, come on, man and or woman, you were warned!