I have to pee.

There, I’ve said it.  Not that you couldn’t tell, not that anyone couldn’t tell, what with me sitting at my desk with my legs bunched together as I try to stem the tide from, you know, tiding.

“Go to the bathroom,” you say.  Thanks, Mr. Whipple, but there’s a pack of hyenas guarding the nearest lavatory, and while I’m not sure why they’re there, I know that I’m just one man, alone, afraid to challenge them for the urinal cake territory.  Let them have it, I say; give them the land of the yellow river and I’ll sit here until something bursts.

“Hyenas?”

Well, kids.  Teenagers.  Maybe they won’t bite so much as they’ll taunt, but who can blame them for surrendering to their baser instincts as I cautiously stumble down the hall, almost drunkenly, as I try to keep the internal swishing to a minimum?  Maybe they’re touring the building; perhaps in this downward economy they’ve been hired as scofflaws and hallway hoodlums instead of as burger flippers and fry salters.  Whatever they are, they’re in my way and as hard as I try to magically transport my pain away through E.S.Pee, I remain crippled by the worst nightmare the little Dutch boy ever had. (“Honey, don’t stick your thumb in there!  You can’t hold everything back.”)

Arrgh!  I give, I give!  Uncle!