I remember 1989 sitting in a McDonald’s, at the corner of Elm and State Streets, in Schenectady, NY, half drunk — OK, whole drunk — my feet up on the bench, enjoying my soda and a cig, and the guy at the next booth with his wife and two stinking brat kids, complaining about my smoke, despite the fact I was there first and they sat next to me.
People were entitled assholes then as now.
“Go sit somewhere else,” I told them. But alas, I was the bad guy and the manager asked me to leave.
But not before I smashed McNugget sauces all over their Volvo. Barbeque. Sweet & Sour. Honey Mustard. Pop, smash, smear. Pop, smash, smear…
The guy quickly ran out to yell at me. But I whipped my dick out and started pissing at him. I pissed right up in his face and all over his shirt and he was like, “Aaaaaaah, eeeewwwwww! Stoppp!” He tried his best to block it but I know I got some piss right in his fat mouth.
Then his old lady ran out and I pissed all over her, followed by the stinking brat kids to see if their parents were OK, and I pissed all over them, too. I pissed all over all of them. Just back and forth, like a lawn sprinkler.
Yeah, it was a lot of piss. They had free refills back then. You helped yourself. And I had the big 32oz cup.
So then the manager came out, and I was still pissing and the husband and the wife and the stinking brat kids were dancing around, all grossed out, trying to get the piss off them.
And then I pissed all over the manager, too, and then this random lady walking by and her dog.
And then there was so much piss, mixed with the broken McNugget sauces because my piss was getting on the Volvo and washing the sauces on to the ground and they’re mostly soybean oil-based so it was like one big, pissy oil slick and everyone was slipping and sliding in piss and McNugget sauce.
And the piss just kept coming, so I lit up another cigarette, and then the police cars started pulling in and as they made the turn, they skidded, trying to avoid all the people dancing around in the piss and McNugget sauce, and one after the other, they slid down into the ditch, one on top of the other, as their wailing sirens just kind of “BRRRrrrooooop” — faded out.
Like four cop cars were stacked on top of each other and as the cops fumbled around trying to help each other out of the cars — like Keystone Cops, but piss — I was still pissing and smoking my cigarette, and the piss and McNugget sauce, now a sticky, gooey, slippery, sticky foam was filling up the ditch that the cops were in and they were trying to swim out, and the guy and his wife and their stinking brat kids and the manager and the old lady with the dog — and the dog itself — were all still dancing around trying to wipe piss and McNugget sauce off themselves, yelling and crying and barking (in the case of the dog) and slipping and sliding and falling down and getting more on them.
I finished my cigarette and flicked it and one of the cop cars was leaking gas…
And luckily, it didn’t catch on fire and explode into a fiery blaze, because this story would have taken a nasty turn, BUT…
I was still standing there with my dick out and suddenly, watching all of this, I began to get extremely aroused. Finally, my piss flow stopped. A few more spurts. OK, it stopped. Oh wait, one more. OK, it stopped. But now my dick was REALLY HARD so I started to whack off.
But that’s kind of gross because there’s kids in the story so I stopped and instead removed a flute — an actual woodwind instrument — from my leather jacket and began playing Jethro Tull while river-dancing in the piss and McNugget sauce.
Piss and McNugget sauce splashed to the beat of my river-dancing feet. And all the rats started coming out of McDonald’s, river dancing along with me to the beautiful sounds of my flute. And I began walking down the street and all the rats, still river-dancing, followed me like I was the Pied Piper.
In the background, the husband and wife and stinking brat kids and the manager and the cops were all still struggling, slipping and sliding in the piss and McNugget sauce, which thank God didn’t also have my cum in it because there were kids in the story and that would have been gross and perverted and sick.
So I’m river-dancing down State Street, playing the flute, my dick still hanging out of my pants, flopping around to the dancing, and a trail of rats — also river-dancing — behind me. I don’t know if their dicks were flopping around, I couldn’t see, but they were definitely river-dancing.
And by the way, I didn’t even know I could river-dance, nor play the flute for that matter, until just then. It was extraordinary.
Anyway, I’m river-dancing down State Street, playing the flute, my dick swinging, got all these rats behind me, also river-dancing, and suddenly, people start coming out of their homes and businesses and joining in!
It’s like that scene from Rocky! where he’s running through the streets of Philadelphia on his way to those iconic steps where he gets to the top and jumps up and down, except it’s Schenectady and it’s a guy playing a flute with his dick flopping around and a bunch of dirty rats from McDonald’s river-dancing.
Nonetheless, we continue all the way down State Street, and by now it’s like the Million Man March, except this is still the 1980s so the Million Man March didn’t happen yet, so it’s more like Woodstock, but without hippies — although with all the rats and sweaty river-dancing and all the piss it probably still smells as bad.
Eventually, we make it to the Capital. Not the Capitol with an “O”. Not the one in Washington, D.C. No, the capital building in Albany. We’re in New York, foo.
I river-dance up the steps, still playing the flute, dick still flopped out, flapping around. And it’s not as many steps as in the Rocky! movie but it’s still a lot of steps for a guy who smokes AND plays the flute to river-dance up. Especially without missing a beat.
I get to the top and all the rats and all the people that followed me, including the husband and the wife and the stinking brat kids and the cops and the lady with her dog, who had since freed themselves from the piss and McNugget sauce, they’re all assembled at the bottom of the steps as if anxiously awaiting for me to deliver an “I Have a Dream” speech.
Finally, I stop river-dancing and playing the flute. I reach down, grab my dick.
And I put it back in my pants.
(What did you think I was going to do, you fucking perv? I told you, there’s kids in the story.)
Anyway, all this dancing and pissing and flute playing’s got me a little sick. So before I can say anything, I vomit. Not just a dry heave, or little girly puke in the toilet, I’m talking full-blown, Exorcist-level vomit fire plug here: a violent flow of green goo — with bonus chunks of something — that sprays out all over everyone — the rats, the husband, the wife, the stinking brat kids, the lady, the dog, the cops, all the townspeople who followed me. It just kept coming, for like five minutes, completely blanketing them with green slime like they all let out a collective “I Don’t Know” on You Can’t Do That on Television. (A bit of trivia: that’s where the Nickelodeon green slime originated.)
It was gross.
For real.
So now everyone, except for me, is covered with puke and as I wipe my chin with my concert T-shirt (AC/DC, if I recall), I wake up on the bench in the McDonald’s. It seems I had passed out and the nice man and his wife and their stinking brat kids in the next booth were concerned about me, so they went and told the manager and he came over and woke me up.
I was fine, I think I pissed myself though.
—P.
