The other day I woke up at 6:30 in the morning, and I desperately had to pee. I quickly scooted out of bed to head to the bathroom, but the door was closed. My roommate was using it.

That selfish bastard.

While it is true that I live in a home with only one toilet, that fact had never seriously come into play previous to this moment of urinary trial. I waited. And waited. And waited. I listened for signs that he might be finishing up in there - “Okay, he’s done shaving. He’s probably done in there now. Blast! He turned the shower on!” As the urgent pressure was building up against the inner wall of my bladder I tried to take my mind off the pain. I read for a while, walked around, tried to go back to sleep, and prepared for my day, but all such diversionary tasks were accompianied by a throbbing tidal wave of pee yearning for release.

Maybe some of you ladies out there are suggesting that I might have gone to the bathroom while he was in the shower. Such women are idiotic fools who know nothing of the male psyche. Yes, my roommate was behind the shower curtain, but this proposal is futile because it provides for the chance, however miniscule, that we might accidentally observe another man’s body. I mean seriously, I might have seen his upper thigh or something.

So I continued waiting and writhing amidst the agony of stifled urine. I briefly considered some radical measures such as peeing in the backyard, peeing into the sink, or peeing into a large cup that I would then pour into the backyard while loudly exclaiming, “Man, this lemonade sucks!” to avoid being caught. In order to really sell it, though, I would then take a gulp and yell even louder, “This is beyond awful! It tastes as if this isn’t lemonade at all, but in fact my own urine, still warm from my body! I’m never buying this brand of lemonade again!”

34 minutes later (no joke), when my roommate finally finished up, I stumbled frantically into the bathroom and emptied the contents of my swollen bladder into the toilet basin. With a troublingly loud groan I made my pleasure known to the neighborhood. There is nothing like the pleasure known to those who finally release their pee after 34 minutes of choked agony. It’s something akin to biting into a Hot Pocket filled with spring-loaded rammen noodles and human blood.

…I feel startled and troubled by the sentance I just wrote, and I feel that I should stop there. Goodbye.

I’m finally starting to feel better.

For four days, I’ve suffered through a brutal sore throat, probably obtained from one of my students. My esophagas felt like it had been raped by dolphins. My throat was red, raw, and ravaged. My head felt as if every cavity in my substantial skull was brimming with chunky mucous, or perhaps a fruit cocktail of some sort. Given the texture of whatever substance I was sneezing up, I cannot be certain of it’s origins, but I can’t rule out demonic influence. My head throbbed in pain. My body ached, as if I had been pummelled by a gang of rock-wielding, low-income gnomes in my sleep.

To make matters worse, my girlfriend managed to mock me in my fiercest moment of pain. We were having pizza to relax and take my mind off the pain when it happened. I picked up a slice of fresh, piping-hot pepperoni pizza and delivered it through my anxious, salivating lips when I felt the pain begin. The skin on the roof of my mouth melted away like bloody wax, as the entire flap of cheese and meat from my slice proceeded to slip off the crust and flop onto my lip and chin. I bobbed my head forward in panic, moaning as I felt my lower lip burn. I tried to bite away the flaming cheese flap, but I was unable to. In my mind’s beleaguered state, I did not think to release the flaming cheese flap from my mouth and onto my plate until too late. Meanwhile, Bridgette was giggling hysterically. In hindsight, I can see the humor in watching a groaning, uncoordinated man flail in agony as his lips and mouth are destroyed by searing cheese, but I didn’t manage to see it at that moment as it was happening to me.

I spent the rest my night with an ice cube on my puffed, red lip and a bruised ego. It was the most unpleasant day of my life. It was literally worse than being cooked alive.

Stop laughing at me.

Yesterday we celebrated President’s Day. As a lover of history and a man who finds a deeply unnatural satisfaction in gazing at pictures of Lincoln, it was a day of celebration and merriment. Like many holidays, President’s Day is all about tradition - we have the Christmas tree, 4th of July fireworks, and all the requisite Armistice Day stuff (i.e. fudge).

For President’s Day, I like to jump out of bed and draw a portrait of our 15th president, James Buchanan, from memory. All the details, from his firm eyes, chiseled nose, to the beard he may or may not have had. I put it all in there, baby. Following this, I ritualistically burn Chester Alan Arthur in effigy on my front lawn to denounce his isolationist tarriffs and to mock his portly frame. While doing this, I drink cheap wine straight from the bottle and lunge awkwardly towards those who approach me. I bark at them, “Sic semper tyrannis! Thus be it ever to tyrants! Chet Arthur is a bloated scallywag who seeks coitus in the arms of strumpets!” My hot, acidic spittle flies into the eyes and mouths of the horrified passersby as I fire my antique pistols into the air.

Then I have a sandwich for lunch.

For the remainder of the day, I will relax, perhaps read a presidential biography, and more than likely build an altar of human bones and swine-flesh while attempting to summon the living spirit of Warren Harding (who served the shortest term as president - 29 days). Warren and I will josh each other and chew the fat - I will bring him up to speed on the last 81 years of human development and he will show me what it feels like to make out with a ghost. So it all works out.

Yes, President’s Day is my 19th-favorite day of the year, and yesterday proved to be no exception. I celebrated, I remembered, I lashed out in fury, and I somehow lost two pints of plasma. Had he been there, Honest Abe would have been proud. Then I would probably have shot him again.

I just ate a couple Ding Dongs.

I know where all of you think I’m going with this. I’m sure you all think I’m going to wander off on some disgusting diatribe about how I ate the Ding Dongs at an alarmingly rapid rate, causing me to vomit a 10-foot high fountain of sugary Hostess creme mixed with stomach acid. You probably expect me to detail for you how the vomit splashed all over the Dean’s nice suit, and I got kicked out of school, forcing me to spend my days sleeping under benches and drinking the bitter fluid that drained out of a nearby septic tank. You think I’m so predictable that I’d go on and on describing how my love for Ding Dongs causes me to engage in unnatural acts with them until the back of my jeans are stained with filling and my hair is slicked with a malodorous substance of unknown origin. I’m certain that you expect me to elaborate on the irregularity and looseness of my bowels, and ponder why there is so much blood in my stool (seriously, the toilet looks like I dumped a bunch of Chef Boyardee in there when I’m through with it).

Well forget it. That’s not what I’m all about. I’m better than that. I just wanted you to know about how I like Ding Dongs. That it. I don’t need to gross you guys out to get laughs; there’s no need to get bizarre. I don’t even like that kind of humor. You guys need to get a life. Seriously, just grow up.

Also, I killed a rat with a hammer.

There is nothing so gloriously awkward as when one man develops a platonic crush on another man.

Yes, sometimes envy and admiration of a cool, successful, handsome, man crosses that line - that line where one is no longer celebrating mere friendship, but something deeper and profoundly unnerving. The weaker man begins to worship and idolize the greater man, much like a 13-year old middle-school girl might long for Corey Haim.

I have had my allotment of man-crushes over the years, but none greater than for a gentleman named John Hermanson, a local musician of some repute (Alva Star: hazy power-pop, Storyhill: plaintive acoustic duo, and Olympic Hopefuls: ripping indie-pop).

John and I are merely “just friends” now, but that change has not repressed the shamefully awkward memories I have of my former man-crush towards him. When Welmore Mile recruited John to produce our first album it was done out of sheer platonic man-lust for his talents, his perfect teeth, and his soulful eyes. During the first few days in the studio, his decrees went unchallenged. He could have suggested that we replace my vocal tracks with the brayings of a donkey with a broken knee, and I would have vigorously nodded my head in agreement. I also burned countless calories in hyperactive attempts to make Hermanson laugh, for in platonic man-crushes, making your crush laugh is the equivalent to a 4-hour makeout session.

There was also one unspeakable moment in the studio where our eyes met meaningfully, and we did what felt only natural at the time. We followed the trail of this man-crush to its inevitable conclusion, and pledged to never speak of it to anybody. There’s probably a sound-recording of it somewhere on his hard drive. We also ate pancakes and I told him all my secrets.

Things between Hermanson and I are back to normal now. We worked together long enough for the crush to wear off and for some good ol’ hatred to seep in. We even had a healthy knife-fight back in ‘03 where I killed his baby. It’s much healthier this way, and we may work together again in the future. Like the 13-year old girl who grows up and realizes that Corey Haim is probably a child molester or something, I have moved on from my man-crush on John Hermanson. I’m too old too be bothered with stuff like that.

Besides, I like Donald Sutherland now.

This weekend, I’m headed back up with Bridgette to visit her parents in Virginia, MN. But this time, things are different.

This time, they’re filming a big-budget Hollywood movie there.

Yes, Charlize Theron, Frances McDormand, Woody Harrelson, and Sissy Spacek are all staying in the Iron Range while filming a movie about a sexual harassment lawsuit that was brought against an iron mine back in the early 90’s. Yes, all the stars are out, and Virginia has rolled out the red carpet to greet them.*

The producers have offered a crisp check for $1000 to anybody who comes up with a snappy title for the film. Desparately in need of money, I plan to spend much of the weekend stalking Woody Harrelson while shouting, “Demon Vomit!” - my proposed title. I will shadow him - staring forcefully into his eyes while eating butterscotch taffy and barking “Demon Vomit!” between chews. Woody will nod, put his hand on my shoulder, and thank me for my contribution to his career. I will then ask him how Wendt is doing. As the tears fill my eyes and roll down my cheeks at the thought of my beloved Wendt, Harrelson will lick the tears off my face. There is no doubt about it.

When not stalking Woody Harrelson, I also hope to spend time helping Charlize Theron get into character by sexually harassing her, describing in vivid detail what my father looks like naked.

All in all, it looks to be a satisfying weekend. Unless I get scabies.

*Virginia has no red carpet whatsoever, metaphorical or otherwise.