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The Risky Pee: A Gold Standard For Bar Heroics

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I started going to bars in 2009. That was my first year of college. In the eight years since, I have maintained that relationship — often working, even on weekends, to improve it.

For obvious reasons, namely olive skinned underclassmen and the music of Whitney Houston (pre Bobby Brown), I love bars. For the less obvious reasons, like gimmicks and pick-up lines, I love bars even more.

In my eight-year career, I’ve seen some great gimmicks. I’ve seen some shit. I’ve also done some shit. What I’ve realized, now as I’m removed from college, is that the ish you do in the bar — the stuff that requires courage and gumption — like approaching the girl in the napkin next to the meathead, translates. It translates and it makes you a better person. There is no greater example of this than the “Risky Pee.” I want to honor it.

There is one person I have in mind who has performed this clandestine act more so than anyone else I know. He is also the only person I know to have never butchered this move. He’s never been caught and he has never failed. He is the best. I won’t say his name, because he is married, with child, and super successful now, but the example I’m about to paint is absolutely describing him.

It’s 12:30 and the bar is full. I just finished my beer and I need another one. I also kinda have to pee.

After tossing my empty beer bottle, I tell the younger lady (18) I’m talking to I will be right back and to go ahead to put anything she wants on my tab — obv I don’t have a tab. I make for the restroom. The line is jutting from the bathroom out onto the patio. It will be at least half an hour until I get to a urinal. Dejected, I walk towards the bathroom line.

In those 30 minutes, nothing eventful happens. My buzz fades a bit and I see a busty teenager (18) break up with her boyfriend and storm to the opposite end of the patio. I take note of where she went and what she was wearing before returning to the painful progression of the bathroom line. I wait an extra five minutes because I have trouble peeing next to people and I needed a stall. I also do blow in the stall. Thirty-five minutes later I return inside where one of my friends is playing tonsil hockey with the aforementioned girl (18ish) I was courting. The rest of my buddies are drunk, because I took 35 minutes to pee.

I’m about to order another drink to catch back up. I feel a tap on my shoulder. It is my good friend Hambone. Hambone is smiling and in an inebriated gesture swings his right arm around my neck. He pulls me in close.

“So, that bathroom line is fucking brutallll. Cover me on the right. I’m gonna pee pee on the bar and get a beer.”

He starts to move away but quickly pulls back in close.

“Also, I made out with that 18-year-old chick you liked. You took a long time. I’m sorry. I love you.”

Hambone drags me with him for a few feet until we meet the bar top counter. Instantly he waves the bartender over. He perks up, smiles, and pulls his right hand from behind my head to shake the hand of the bartender. His left hand is below the bar, unzipping his zipper, prepping.

The bartender turns to grab a beer and Hambone tells me to move forward. Once he approves my cover, he angles his lower half, shielding himself from the left side of the bar. He starts to pee. He stays peeing on the bar floor, in unaided form, and places both hands atop the counter. The bartender swiftly returns with a beer, smiling at Hambone.

“Bro, you want a shot, too?”

Hambone looks to me, still peeing. I nod my head, to confirm. Hambone smiles, aggressively pats my shoulder, and turns back towards the bartender to let him know we would in fact like to take two shots with him.

“Sweet!” The congenial bartender pounds the countertop. He quickly preps three shots. Hambone is still peeing. A puddle is starting to form, nearing my feet. Hambone whistles at a girl across the bar who smiles and blushes. He does the index-thumb pistol with his right hand and shoots at her. She catches the bullet and, giddy, whispers to her friend. Hambone places his hands back on the counter. After another fifteen seconds we are handed our shots. The bartender raises his shot glass and we mirror him. “To friends!”

“To friends!” Hambone screams. He slugs his shot and lunges his upper body forward to shake hands with the bartender. They hold the embrace for a few seconds, genuinely, and then part. I notice that during that hurried embrace, Hambone used his off hand to put away his piece and zip up. He tells the bartender that he’s his boy and we will be back. The beer and shots were free. There is a puddle of urine on the floor that people have not yet noticed.

That’s the risky pee. It is typically done at a bar or in a trash bin inside a bar. If it is in the parking lot, it isn’t risky — you’re just peeing.

It translates. That’s what’s important. Hambone perfected it in college, cultivating interpersonal skill and nerve, and now he makes big life moves. In time, a final exam or an interview will seem trivial, because you pee in bars. Sometimes on spraying people. And you don’t get caught. You also don’t waste time in the bathroom. That is efficient.

Image via Shutterstock

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I like beer, athletic competition, telling my friends "she is crazy" but really blowing her up, and writing.

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