True story, what I wrote over there on BE A DESIGN GROUP today. We get a lot more traffic over there -- something like 50,000 visitors a month or something, or twice as many people as live in the town I grew up in -- so I have to tone things down a little bit. But that's OK. Its actually kind of fun, having to invent a way of saying "I had to take a piss so bad for most of the chase that I was in pain like Daniel-San when he gets his ass kicked by the Cobra Kai in Karate Kid". Can't say that over there. Wouldn't be appropriate.
But I can whatever the hell I want here. So I'll publish the "alternate ending" that was left on the cutting room floor. Here now, enjoy this "Deleted Scene" from "Chasing After A Logo".
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So I left the gas station, having finally caught up to the logo, and discovered its predictible lameness. However, that business meeting in the smallest room of my house was becoming more and more urgent. I had to sit perfectly upright, bent over the steering wheel, hips locked in place to squeeze it in.
Is there any feeling in the world worse than having to go to the bathroom while driving? Every crater in the road, every bump, every nuance that makes the vehicle change its horizontal alignment squeezes it ever closer to freedom. Its like Rock Lobster; uncomfortable at the beginning, getting progressively more and more unbearable until you just can't take it anymore. Indeed, you know that it will only get worse. For when you get home, you have to move to get up out of the vehicle, and then walk.
I'm convinced that the same switch in the brain that controls the legs controls the bladder. Because why else would you have to walk like John Wayne in Hondo, all spread out from years of horseback riding and bad knees? I don't ever walk like that other times. I can't even try to walk like that if I wanted to. But there I am, hobbling around like the pride of Winterset Iowa, praying to the Almighty that I can make it just a few steps more.
I made it. The human body senses when its close to a toilet, because it gives up on trying to hold it in. That stuff's coming out. But then I discovered a double deuce of horror.
One, I was wearing stylish button-fly jeans. Takes like an extra ten seconds to open. Two, I was wearing boxers with ties. Takes like another ten seconds to untie. That's twenty seconds I didn't have.
There are no winners here.
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Yeah, on second thought, its a good thing that's a "deleted scene". Some things are better off left on the cutting room floor. In fact, don't be surprised if that story just disappears this afternoon. After a sandwich from Blimpie, I might second-guess myself and pull it down.
For the record, I made it just barely. No pants were harmed in the living of this story.
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