Well I never thought I'd print this story. I never even thought I'd write it. But situations come up you know, where one thing reminds you of another, and the first thing you know, your imagination takes over and you find yourself doubled up laughing at the possibilities. That's exactly what happened here so I actually put it up on You Tube and within an hour, twenty other people were laughing at it as well. So I thought I'd share it with you.
I Pissed in the Measuring Cup
The rumor of what the black servant women put into the chocolate cake mix in the book “The Help” just cracked me up, given the hoyty-toyty group of women they served it to. It was the ultimate justice in my mind. Little did I know that a similar scenario would play out within my own circle of friends. It was totally precious because it involved an aging group of people. Let me tell you about it.
Larry is an aging musician who works from home. It’s a pretty good arrangement now that the kids have grown up and left the nest. He can arrange and play, even compose if the mood strikes him without a whole lot of interruption. And Maude doesn’t mind either. As long as there’s music in the house, things are as they should be. She merrily goes about baking and cooking for her children and grandchildren, hauling the foodstuffs over to them in her station wagon like any good mom and grandma would do. All in all, it’s a pretty happy household thirty days out of thirty-one.
But on the first Monday of every month Maude invites her lady friends over to what she calls her “book club” discussion group. These women get all eleganted up and sit around Maude’s living room discussing a particular book and/or it’s author whilst munching on dainties and sipping tea or coffee. Meanwhile Larry has to go out, to bed, or at the very least shut up. It’s a real burr under his saddle blanket.
Now I have to put all this into context. See, none of these people are spring chickens anymore. They’re what you call – aging. The ladies find it increasingly difficult to get elegant in the first place, and then to maintain that image through the evening takes some effort. What they do to compensate is to play soft background music so that if one of them happens to fart, it’s likely to go unnoticed. Well so far, it pleases Maude no end.
Larry normally goes over to his son’s place to jam with him and his kids – usually a good time, so it’s no great hardship. But Larry isn’t getting any younger either. He’s getting into what I call the prostate years. That definitely calls for some changes. Just because it’s not cancer doesn’t mean it’s not a problem. Not to put too fine a point on it, the whole plumbing system begins to seize up. You get your exercise by running to the bathroom every hour (night and day) and then when you get there, you either can’t go, or can’t produce more than about eighteen drops. So you can well imagine that Larry can become a little testy now and then.
Well, Larry decides to visit the doctor. He’s been nursing this ridiculous condition long enough. He figures if he can get a Roto-Rooter type job done on his plumbing that should provide some relief. The doctor agrees, but has to first do a scientific assessment of the problem. “For the next three days and nights,” he says, “Measure the amount of urine you pass each time you go, and mark it down. When you come to see me next week, bring the records with you.”
Easy enough thinks Larry. It’s a small price to pay for some relief. Now he has to stay home for the next three days; no problem. He has an old log-book he can use to mark down the details; also no problem. But what the hell is he going to use to measure his output with? Musicians aren’t naturally given to logical thinking.
Maude is out buying baking supplies for her tonight’s party, so Larry is left to dig around the house somewhere for something – anything by which to measure his urine output. Then he spots it. “Urethra!” he yells, laughing at his own joke. “I’ve found it!”
He hauls the small measuring cup from out of Maude’s cabinet. She’s not going to be happy with this, that’s for sure. “Aw, piss on it,” he jokes to himself, taking the thing into the bathroom. By gum, it works just fine. He pees, takes down the measurement and the time, rinses the cup, puts it on the water closet and forgets about it.
To make a long story short, Maude comes home with her baking supplies and gets right into it. She has to get prepared for her “book club” discussion group tonight with little time to spare. Predictably, she spots the measuring cup in the bathroom and hauls it into the kitchen, wondering what it’s doing there in the first place. Larry’s out so she can’t ask him. Oh well, looks clean, so she pours some cream into it and proceeds with her recipes.
Three-quarters of the way through her baking, Larry walks in the door – straight to the bathroom. The measuring cup is missing and he’s got to go! He marches into the kitchen and with a single swoop, grabs the measuring cup out of the sink and returns to the toilet. Job done, he logs the data, rinses out the measuring cup and returns it to the kitchen, saying nothing.
Maude is thunderstruck. She is just in the process of dumping the first tray of cookies onto the counter. Her hands fall to her sides and the cookies slide off onto the floor. Her facial expression is one of bewilderment. Larry sees this, walks over and scoops a couple of cookies off the floor, shoving them in his mouth.
Maude begins to cry. There is no time to start over. In a rare fit of sudden rage, she grabs the cup and hurls it at Larry’s head. Luckily, her aim isn’t that good and the cup lodges in the drywall above the table. “You, you, you, - what were you using that cup for?” She instantly regrets having asked.
“That’s my piss calibrator,” says Larry matter of factly, and walks away.
Good old Larry, never one to mince words. Well, he paid for that one. Maude phoned the bakery and Larry had to pick the order up. Cost him a hundred and twenty-four bucks. But he figured it was worth it.
