Written by John Butler
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Topics: water, Piss

Monday, 28 February 2005

image for Man Who Can Piss Pure Water To Have Taps Removed From Kitchen
Bob enjoys a drink of his own pissed water

"They're no longer necessary"

Ireland- A 40 year-old man living in Galway known only as "Bob", who discovered recently he possessed the ability to urinate pure H2O (or "water"), has decided "enough is enough" and plans to have plumbers remove the sink from his kitchen.

Speaking to the mass of intrigued reporters who had gathered around his small suburban home, Bob said "this is something I have been considering for quite some time now. In fact ever since I discovered I could piss pure water, the removal of my kitchen sink has been at the forefront of my mind".

The exact moment Bob acquired this ability is unknown even to him, as, at the beginning he just assumed the water was urine that was naturally white in colour. Bob explained, "Most of the time, my urine tended to be golden but at times it could be white. It was only after three weeks of consistently emitting what I thought to be white urine did I begin to wonder, "hey something's up here".

Interestingly, Bob's family (contemporary and ancestral) have had a long history of irregular urine composition and colour. Bob revealed, "My great, great Irish uncle from Wicklow would regularly piss green urine". His fellow Avondale townsfolk affectionately labelled him as, "the man who could piss on a nettle without the nettle knowin' it". He eventually overcame this somewhat undignified soubriquet to found the 7UP corporation. "To this day, they still say that's why 7up bottles are green".

Bob would continue long into the night (only stopping for toilet breaks/when the reporters became dehydrated with concentration) talking about his ancestors with strange piss. "My great, great, great grand Auntie Maud from Mayo spent her retirement years emitting a sort of lilac coloured urine. She used to say, "hey I'm going for a flower-shower" instead of, as we would say today, "Hey I'm going for a piss", in reference to the fact that there is a flower called "lilac" and a colour of the same name and colour".

She made her fortune selling phoney cans of methylated spirits. Speaking from the grave, Auntie Maud informed us, "I had painters literally queuing up outside my house looking for methylated spirits to remove the paint from their laboured hands".

She went on, "It eventually became too difficult for me to supply what the painters were demanding so I had to hire a second person to stand at my door and flog the fake methylated spirits to the hordes of painters, while I stayed in the bathroom drinking copious amounts of liquid while squatted over bottles with fake methylated spirits labels stuck on them. It literally had to be in one end out the other, in order to keep up with demand. My kidneys were working over time so I had my son (aka Bob's great, great grand uncle) donate one of his kidneys under the pretence that I only had one kidney and therefore needed one more kidney to survive. I was to be the first person in the whole world (incl. history of and present) to have three kidneys. The trouble was ownership of three kidneys had become a federal offence ever since the Irish Government had passed the Organ Quantity Restriction Act 1823".

"Needless to say then, that the doctor who would eventually perform the illegal kidney transplant needed some initial convincing/cajoling, but luckily he happened to be a painter in his spare time and promising him a year's supply of methylated spirits seemed to swing things around in my favour. And, despite having to split my income, and having to provide a doctor/part-time painter with a year's free supply of methylated spirits, I still made a tidy profit".

Eventually though, methylated spirits manufacturers grew wise to Bob's great, great, great grand Auntie Maud's fraudulent practice, so one such methylated spirits manufacturer recruited her as Head of Output and Quality Control. Her recruitment remains one of the few examples of "de-mechanisation of the means of production" since the dawning of the industrial revolution if not the only example.

It was not necessarily an irregular colour that made Bob's ancestors' urine so fascinatingly strange, however. For instance, his great, great, great, great grandfather's (not his great, great, great grand aunt's (with the lilac piss) uncle incidentally- she was from his mother's side) urine was supposedly composed entirely of shit and emerged not from his penis but from his anus. This "shit-piss" as it became known, bore remarkable similarities to normal, everyday shit right down to the fetid, shit-like smell.

Indeed, one of Bob's great, great, great,, great grandfather's admirers told reporters of the future (our present) that, "Bob's great, great, great, great granduncle is amazing. To be able to piss through your anus is one thing but to be able to piss shit through your anus is quite another". Bob's great, great, great, great granduncle toured the world exhibiting this astounding talent of his and became a celebrity in countries where piss that looks like shit is a sign of masculinity (such as Zambia- one of the reasons (if not the only reason) the primarily male Zambian government is doing so little to tackle the severe diarrhoea problem endemic in their crappy old country).

The next ancestor with unique urine Bob discussed with us was a tad more recent. This was Bob's great grandfather whose piss had the capacity to cure cancer. According to Bob, "all he had to do to cure cancer was apply piss on the affected area (or "lump" (or "malignant tumour" in lay doctors terms (lay as in "not a priest"))) through his built-in anatomical applicator (or "penis"). Bob's great grandfather himself developed testicular cancer in later life. Talk about a marriage of convenience! He cured himself within hours of diagnosis (without so much as a realistic threat of bollock removal).

Then there was his great, great, great granduncle who used to piss apples (Not as painful as it sounds, funnily enough, but still pretty goddamn painful) According to Bob, "He used to piss an apple a day but, ironically, couldn't keep the doctor away (He required a daily doctoral injection of painkillers into the groin region)". He would regularly attempt to invoke God's pity praying, "Please God… if you wanted me to excrete the fruit of Adam's temptation, you could of at least allowed me to piss cider, Amen".

There was also his great grandmother, also called Maud but not from Mayo (she was from Roscommon). She used to piss bowling balls (Now that really is as painful as it sounds- in fact probably more painful). It was handy when she went bowling however, as she didn't have to wait for her bowling ball to come back through the bowling ball dispenser. That was perhaps scant consolation however, for the intense vaginal pain she suffered through discharging a bowling ball. Heck of a good bowler though.

Although Bob promised us he had literally hundreds more ancestors with both weird and wonderful piss, due to both ours and his fatigue (by this time it was two o' clock in the morning- we had begun chatting at 9pm- that's six hours… or possibly thirty!?), he only mentioned one other- his great, great grand uncle (or have I mentioned him?) whose piss was composed of semen (and vice versa). Bob informed us he was an athlete who "when randomly required to provide a urine sample after a race had to masturbate in the changing room". He allegedly spearheaded the campaign to abolish communal showers in athlete's changing rooms under the slogan "A Little Privacy Please". He also had trouble impregnating women having to drink like a fish before he stood any chance. Alcohol assisted his sex life in more ways than the traditional one.

Like many of us, Bob's great, great granduncle enjoyed pissing on nettles. One day, however, that enjoyment quickly turned to life-altering responsibility when Bob's great great granuncle inadvertently made a young teenage nettle pregnant. Inter-species sex is heavily frowned upon within the nettle community. Even a nettle found to have had sex with a thistle* is likely never to be welcome among its family ever again (family in this case meaning clump of surrounding nettles).

The young teenage nettle soon gave birth to a creature with the body of a nettle and the stinging power of a man…or sorry excuse me, that's the body of a man with the stinging power of a nettle…easy mistake to make. They called him "Stingy" for some reason. Stingy's one ambition in life was to be a masseur but because he had no voluntary control over the stings he administered, he became a superhero instead. He made Bob's great, great granduncle very proud but piled shame upon his poor mother who, through post-natal depression, never stung again.

*There has been only one known case of a thistle impregnating a nettle. The offspring off such a union is known as a "nestle". In the one known case, the offspring went on to found a well-known French chocolate manufacturer.

Apparently Bob's unusual urine lineage dates back to pre-ancient times, to his great127 grandfather who pissed copper, and his great127 grandmother who pissed tin. Together they heralded the Bronze Age. The Bronze Age would remain the dominant age for manys a year, until Bob's great126 granduncle came along who could piss iron.

Anyway back to Bob himself. Acting upon the suspicion that he was about to extend his family's peculiar-piss legacy, Bob visited his local physician (he did seek more specific, "localised" help but his trip to the gynaecologist's was cut short when his shoulder-length wig fell off in the waiting room drawing shocked stares from the all-female congregation. "Sorry I thought this wig was my real hair" was his lame excuse before he shamefacedly made for the exit).

The actual doctor took a urine sample from Bob, ironically in an empty Ballygowan bottle (all the beakers were in use). Little did the doctor know that he could have sold that bottle to the public right their and then and not received any condemnatory letters from the Food Health and Safety Commission subsequently- he probably would never have guessed it.

Bob told us, "When the doctor called me and told me he had been taking sips from my urine sample throughout the evening, I knew there was a slight chance my urine was actually composed of water. He said he'd call back in the morning to let me know for sure, however".

Sure enough the next day, after the final test was carried out upon Bob's urine sample, the doctor telephoned him and said, "you can re-name your penis "water pisstol" mate. The tests have come through- you're pissing h2o my friend. Congratulations!"

Since Bob discovered he could piss water, his life has changed immeasurably. "News has broken out all over the city- I'm a water-waster", he joked. "I've had de-hydrated prostitutes come up to me literally begging for blow-jobs. Sometimes it's them who pay me!!" "Well not really", he added… "usually we just call it even".

"I pissed in my pants the other day and then added detergent. Came out smelling like springtime", boasted Bob. He added, "And who needs a blow-drier when you got a flatulent arse workin' overtime like mine!" (Not sure whether he's still boasting there).

Of his garden Bob stated proudly, "The flowers in my garden have never been happier. I called Gerry Daly on the Saturday Morning Gardening Show on RTE Radio 1 and it was engaged. But eventually I got through and he told me to "piss on my purple azaleas twice a day to stave off seasonal desiccation and to piss on my bed of Versillia Roses three times a week to keep them nice and perky". Gerry's great went it comes to the whats and what-nots of garden urination… the best in the business in fact. Gerry is a Wexford man you know.

"Oh and I can finally compete with my son's super-soaker water pistol. Goodness knows what Mrs. O'Reilly next door thinks of me chasing my son around the garden with my penis extruding from my pants (oh and I need it to be erect to improve my long distance water pistol skills, not for any other reason). Anyway, I say let the Child Welfare Authorities and Anti-Paedophile groups think what they bloody well like- the important thing is my son and I are closer than we've ever been. Even closer since those protestors erected "Paedophile Living Here" placards outside my house. None of my kid's friends have shown up since, meaning we're spending a lot more quality time together".

"And I'm still getting used to the idea of not having to flush the toilet after a piss. It's like learning how to ride a bike again…well not really…it's more like…you know when you brutally rape a woman but the woman doesn't report it to the police- that's what it's like when you don't have to flush…no wait……sorry I'm not very good at making analogies……What? Why are you looking at me like that? Stop it! Stop staring at me! I'm not a rapist- this interview is supposed to be about my watery piss!"

The quest for a conscious assimilation of a peculiar and unforeseen reality (i.e. Bob's ability to piss water) has compelled Bob to begin making wholesale changes to his life in order to adapt. (And speaking of philosophical flannel, it was the ancient Greek philosopher, Hereclitus, who saw urine as the central axis upon which a necessarily malleable universe is steered into inevitable oblivion. Hereclitus believed urine (particularly men's urine) had the capacity to propel mankind into dark recesses of sin and impiety. Scholars have since interpreted these dark recesses as mankind's predisposition towards inhumane destruction (to start war for example) while others have interpreted these dark recesses as the public urinals one finds in crappy nightclubs where relics of sin and impiety are often visible in clogged up toilets within the dark recess that is the cubicle wall).

"I need to start adapting fast. I don't want to become known as "the guy who didn't take advantage of his ability to piss water"- you couldn't live with that label hung around your neck, you just couldn't". It is this eagerness to embrace change that has prompted Bob to get rid of the sink in his kitchen. "I just don't see the need any more. The dishwasher can wash the dishes, and if I'm thirsty I can just stick a glass down my pants. Plus I've been wanting for ages to install a new and even bigger toaster, one that can toast up to six slices of bread simultaneously, but didn't have the room to fit it.

Bob continued, "Now with the sink gone there should be plenty of space- enough even for that space-aged eight-slice toaster that Philips are developing to tie in with 1500th anniversary of toast. I read about it in ‘Toaster Monthly', to which I am an avid subscriber. Did you see the giant pull-out in last month's edition on ways to toast waffles that aren't supposed to be toasted such as Birdseye Waffles. You're only supposed to either grill'em, bake'em, fry ‘em or eat ‘em but according to Toaster Monthly, there is also a way to toast them. All you have to do is set the toaster at a really low temperature and continuously pop them down each time they pop up. This way they cook thoroughly albeit slowly".

Despite Bob's affection for toasters, he also feels a strong attachment to the sink he plans to get rid of. "I sure will miss the old kitchen sink though, or "Sinksy" as I liked to call her. We had a lot of great memories. I remember one day I had made dinner but realised I had forgotten to put the dishwasher on so I had to take out a dirty plate and wash it in old Sinksy. I'll never forget that day for as long as I live", Bob said, wiping a tear from his eye.

Bob, continuing to wax nostalgically, recalls, "…and I remember how I used to have to wait a couple of seconds after I had turned the hot water tap on for hot water to actually come out. First it would be cold like water from the cold tap, then lukewarm, then it would get gradually hotter until eventually it got so hot it would scald you. I remember I burnt my finger under the hot tap but the cold tap was there ready and waiting to soothe my pain. That sink has always been there for me. I'm going to miss it so much. This is just something I have to do". [At this point Bob breaks down crying- tears pouring from his eyes not unlike taps ironically. However, unlike a tap, Bob was unable to turn the tears off].

Two hours later, after Bob finally gathered himself together, he started to harp on about the sink again. "That sink and me were so great together. And it's not as if you can say to me, "C'mon Bob there'll be other sinks", because this is it. After Sinksy, there will be no other sinks. This is it. I'd be more than willing to part with any of my other kitchen appliances if only that were possible. The cooker, the oven, but these are all essential in my day to day life- the microwave, the fridge, everything but the kitchen sink practically". Added Bob passionately, "sometimes I looked at that sink and couldn't believe how beautiful it was".

At this stage, Bob just wouldn't shut about the sink, further celebrating its memory saying, "I just wish I had have done more to let old Sinksy know how much I loved her. You know, treat it every so often. Instead of using Jif to clean it everyday, I could have maybe used ‘Flash All Purpose' once in a while, or even, on very, very special occasions, ‘Mr. Proper'. Just to show I cared and that it wasn't all about cleaning dishes and drinking water. And it wouldn't have hurt to unclog its plughole of uneaten pasta and beans every so often". Shaking his head ruefully, Bob added, "Jesus I could be so goddamn insensitive sometimes".

World famous Sociology lecturer, Steve Loyal, said it is not unusual for people to become emotionally attached to their own kitchen appliances. Loyal stresses that, "we tend to forget that people, especially homemakers, spend more time with their kitchen appliances than they do with real people. We look to the fridge to help us gorge through our depressions and the washing machine for a sense of reliability and brilliant whites- something other human beings can't always provide us with".

Loyal informs us that, "psychological studies have shown that most housewives eyes dilate to a greater degree when shown pictures of a dishwasher than when shown a photo of a blindingly attractive male such as George Clooney… not that I'm attracted to him or anything".

Loyal continued, "In fact sex therapists have stated that the surest way to cure an ailing sex life is for the husband to wear in the bedroom a costume composed entirely of Zanussi (Dishwasher Manufacturers) promotional leaflets stuck together with Selotape. I've tried it with my wife and I can tell you the results have been instant. I'm happy despite the fact that she keep screaming, "Zanussi, Zanussi", instead of "Steve, Steve" during her orgasms. It's better than her screaming the name of her ex-boyfriend, I suppose… damn Trevor".

Loyal added, "If that doesn't work the husband could take really, really desperate measures and actually wash some dishes himself. However, this course of action should only be taken if the marriage is at a critical point of deterioration, i.e. if the dishwasher is broken."

[Suggested Ending]
Anyway back to Bob himself. Bob's recent self-discovery that he could piss water has further complicated the already emotionally charged love-triangle comprising Bob, his toaster, and his kitchen sink. His plans to get rid of his sink could bring closure to the whole affair. Bob believes fate has had a huge part to play in the ultimate denouement of the story. "Because I can now piss water, there just isn't a need for the kitchen sink any longer. I've got to move on with my life. Who knows, perhaps if I had have developed the ability to piss toast (like my great, great Auntie Deborah whom I neglected to mention earlier), things might have worked out differently".

[Alternative Ending]
Anyway back to Bob himself. Bob has stated that he will not have the sinks in his bathroom removed explaining, "sometimes I use the bathroom sink to spit dissolved toothpaste into after I finish brushing my teeth…though I suppose I could use the toilet…no wait- I have to think about the plumbing costs of sink removal… besides why would anyone want a toaster in the bathroom?"

It is ironic that Bob is getting rid of his kitchen sink but keeping the bathroom sink, as his relationship with the latter, he professes, is "purely platonic". "The bathroom sink never captured my heart the way the kitchen sink did", revealed Bob. "I still love it, but not in a…you know… "woman-loves-dishwasher" kind of way".

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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