This story is 67% true.
Man, this is so dumb. We got to this parade and I’m kinda in a bad mood. It’s been pouring for like 45 minutes but thankfully it is starting to clear up. I need to start drinking now. Someone in our group tells us there is a beer distributor around the corner. Alright bet. Three OE pounders and this cranberry vodka a friend gave me should be enough to get me to a happy place. The parade begins. Music, marching, mammaries are everywhere. Two beers down, it’s a great time.
Oh shit, I have to pee.
We are locked in the middle of this parade and the slow moving dance troupe in front of us is starting their routine again. I gotta get outta here. The sides are lined with people taking pictures of the extravagance around us and the end is not in sight. I’m a big boy and I’ve had to pee before but the stakes are much higher when options are limited. WHERE IS THE CLOSEST BATHROOM!? We keep marching but I’m surveying the land. Much to the dismay of my bladder, there isn’t one in sight. Ten minutes pass and we’ve reached critical mass. You know what, step 1: get out the parade. I’ll be able to walk and investigate faster. Also, if I hear Beyonce’s “Freakum Dress” one more time, somebody is getting a golden shower.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” as I break the barrier in a rush. The crowd is only like five rows deep but some onlookers caught a rough shoulder on my way out. Freedom. “Hey,” I scare a stranger, “Where is the closest bathroom??” The fear they felt subsides enough for them to point to a giant brown building about a 100 yards down the boardwalk. “Thanks!” I yell before run/walking through the masses. I see a line. Must be the women’s room. I walk around the other side of the building and waltz into a stall. Now the rules suggest that you shouldn’t stand next to another man at a urinal unless space requires it. Bump that. Thank God, I’m wearing swim trunks. I peel the important parts out of the netting and let fly.
I was relieved.