The Case of the Pee Covered Movie Ticket

It was Saturday evening, and I had just dropped my movie ticket into the toilet in a local movie theater’s bathroom. The toilet was filled with impressive, neon yellow piss. It was nearly glowing with a haunting lack of dilution. It was not my piss. I stared aghast, as the ticket began to sink into the yellow horror. I didn’t know what to do. For as gross as I am, I don’t traffic in Movie Theater Piss Play with strangers. I probably just let you down, huh?

I had been acting like an asshole, and that’s how it goes.

Lately I’ve been suffering a wonderful hypochondriac madness. I’ve been certain, for no good reason, that I have some sort of penis, testicular, groin-based cancer. For no good reason. This has led to me confusingly rubbing my balls every twenty minutes. Checking for lumps. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. So I just rub my balls in a madness, confirm that I can’t feel anything worthwhile, and go back to my life. Certain that I have some sort of nut cancer, I just can’t find it.

Welcome to my world.

What’s a better place to check for nut cancer than the bathroom of a movie theater? Fucking nowhere. So before I was about to take my piss, I decided to give the boys a rub down. Just to, you know, check. Since I was holding the movie ticket in my hand, I decided to just slip it between my lips while I utilized both hands for the most thorough rubbing. At some point in my rubbing, in my frantic checking, something must have went wrong.

Though I am not a scientist, I believe I know what happened. At some point in my rubbing, I hit some mythical portion of my testicles. The part that instantly releases any tense part of one’s body. For a mere nanosecond, my lips unclenched. My entire body momentarily froze in a laxness which is impossible to truly contemplate. As I did this, the ticket slipped, and began to flutter downwards, towards the yellow stink of the toilet.

Recovering from my transient state of ball-rubbing based nirvana, I watched in slow motion as the ticket struck piss. It began to sink.

Much like the Titanic’s final descent, it was an understated, quiet moment. Well, minus the screaming horror and death rattles and probably explosions.

I froze, I didn’t know what to do. The options flashed before my mind. I could a) have to explain to someone that I dropped my ticket into the piss pot because I lost myself in momentary testicle-based nirvana, b) buy a new ticket, or c) retrieve the son of a bitch.

I retrieved the son of a bitch.

My hand plunged into the yellow hell, and I whipped the ticket up and out. I probably caught splash in my face, but I can’t remember. I threw the ticket down onto the toilet rim and tried to ignore the fact that I had my own hand covered in some other degenerate’s piss. It was not my finest moment. I wiped the ticket down with a piece of toilet paper, and left it to dry so I could take my piss, having completed the patting down of my balls.

As I took my piss, finally, I noticed something. The ticket was wilting, furious at what had been done to it. It began to curl, and curl. Piss working it’s way into the fibers of the ticket’s soul, corrupting it on a cellular level. Mountain Dew Colored piss had fittingly felled my ticket. It writhed, it swore at me, it condemned my future hellspawns.

I apologized to it quickly and threw it into the pocket of my blazer and left the bathroom. In a mere two minutes, I had lived a lifetime. Of piss and horror and balls rubbing and fear of cancer and the retrieval of a ticket from a hell I wish upon no one but German scat porn stars. All of these, all of these things would never be known.

To the poor son of a bitch who ripped my piss-ticket, and probably went on his night, covered in my piss, someone else’s piss, and cloaked in an ignorance and innocence I wish I could have had back.