I really had to pee.
I was on a two-hour layover at Denver International Airport, but now after three beers my plane was finally boarding and I had to pee. Really.
What’s worse, I knew the plane was full. I was stuck with a window seat, and there were thunderstorms rolling in; it was certain the pilot wouldn’t turn off the seat belt sign until somewhere over Kansas. By that time, I knew I would have peed myself.
I had but one chance to avoid certain disaster. I ran to the Men’s Room.
The place was packed; there were swinging dicks everywhere. The stalls were full and the only open urinal was between two huge black men; they looked like defensive linebackers for the Green Bay Packers.
And being such big guys, they had their feet spread as if preparing for a third down and two defense, completely blocking my way. It was impossible to approach the urinal. I was totally screwed.
Overhead, I could hear the PA system calling my name, “Paging Mr. Hanson, Mr. Kip Hanson, the plane is leaving. Last call for Mr. Kip Hanson.” Jesus. I had to go, in more ways than one.
So I did the only thing possible: unzipping my fly, I squared up on the line of scrimmage, took careful aim, and from a distance of at least a yard, shot those beers right in-between the legs of the two linebackers.
As one, they turned to watch my performance: despite their imposing bulk, neither dared to move until I was finished, lest my aim go astray. I gave the boy a quick shake, zipped up, grabbed my bags, and ran for the gate. And here’s the cool part: as I exited the Men’s Room, I heard raucous applause from within.
I made the gate with seconds to spare, and had averted certain disaster. And yet, as I buckled my seat belt, I realized my awful mistake: I’d forgotten to wash my hands.