Six Feet, Nine Inches.

Alone in an empty house…wife’s out of town, the pets are with her. It’s just me.

It’s times like these that I do those stereotypical “man” things…those things we’re not supposed to do at all, much less with the fairer sex hanging around.

You know…things like eating nachos. Watching action movies. Scratching ourselves inappropriately. Truly the veil of civilization has slipped.

Late into the night the urge hit…waking me out of a sound sleep. Being the typical man, I resisted as long as I possibly could, but finally groaned and rolled out of bed.

I had again reached that fundamental yet surprisingly elusive conclusion that there’s only so long a man can go without taking a piss.

I blame the margaritas (they go with the nachos).

Since I knew there were no pets or wives to stumble over I didn’t turn on the bedside lamp, instead feeling my way through the pitch black room into the bathroom and turning on the light there.

Now here, tempting fate, I did something completely uncharacteristic of me…I left the bathroom door open.

Normally I do close the door, even when I’m sure that I’m by myself, simply because I’m more comfortable that way. Some unexpected visitor could appear, or a pet, or, given the perverse nature of the universe, half-a-dozen nubile naked women could materialize (HEY! It could happen!).

Besides, simply put, that moment, standing before the porcelain throne and blinking against sleep and the bright bathroom lights all the while carefully aiming…well…that’s when we men feel the most vulnerable.

Even us manly-men. Even the 300-pound, not-afraid-of-anything, can-knock-a-horse-out-with-a-single-punch (another story), tough-as-nails, biker, manly-men. Being somewhat civilized, we generally do try to actually pee IN the toilet…which in most bathrooms puts our back to the door. We like to face our enemies ya see…heck we might even pee on ’em…but back to the door? Yep, vulnerable.

Yet, I’m absolutely dead positive that I’m alone in the house. There is nobody, or nothing, to disturb or endanger me. So what’s the harm? Now, my brain didn’t buy into this, feeling rather nervous about the open door…but I told it to shut up or I’d whack it with another margarita (tequila is NOT its friend).

See where this is going yet?

Now…all the following happened pretty much instantaneously…it was only later I would be able to figure out the precise chain of events…

As I’m “streaming” into the toilet, a large bath towel, which in my “wife’s-not-home” manly defiance mode I had tossed over the macho shower curtain rod instead of properly hanging it on the dainty little towel rod, was disturbed by my movements and slithered with a hiss off the shower curtain rod.

The slightly wet and somewhat cold towel brushed all the way down my bare back on its way to the floor.

It also managed to clip the light switch on the wall behind me and turn off the only light on in the entire house, plunging me into blackness.

It then, with a tremendous crash, knocked various shampoo bottles, tub drain thingys (technical term), and other female grooming bric-a-brac off the edge of the tub. In the deep quiet of a sleeping city, the noise was stunning.

Just to add some color to the mix, the afterimage of the painfully bright twin bathroom light bulbs vanishing produced in my retinas a wonderfully detailed pair of glowing red demon’s eyes that manifested themselves in my central vision.

My vision, which at the moment the lights had gone out, had been directed at the reflection of that damn open door in the bathroom mirror.

My brain took in all this information, and lacking sufficient caffeine or margaritas to correctly process the sudden onslaught of input, chose that moment to try to kill me (again).

It screamed, plainly, “HolyFriggenSheepShitSomething’sBEHINDYouAndYouAreGONNADIE!!!!”

It then cranked my adrenaline output clean up to “eleven”.

Then…I swear to God…the shower curtain attacked me.

Where I had been somewhat asleep, relaxing, and calmly and carefully aiming while I drained off what felt like a quart of yesterday’s caffeine, suddenly I was in complete, all-out, full-on FIGHT OR FLIGHT mode.

Fight or flight mode is not a good thing when you’re stark naked in the pitch black and the only weapon you have a grip on is your…well…weapon…ya know? (wink wink)

Also not a good thing when you’re peeing in a small bathroom and the only door is CLEARLY blocked by some red-eyed demon-spawn from hell.

The next series of events are so melded into micro-time and confused that I’d best describe them as this:

I’m not always pretty…or efficient…but I am DAMN effective. When I’m forced to fight something…by Gawd…it’s gonna die.


The Homeowner Hell clerk calmly looked at my purchases the next morning…a shower rod, curtain and hooks, a new mirror, a couple door hinges, a door knob set, some wall patch, and, of all things, a plunger and asked, “Would you stop bleeding on my counter please?”

I grinned…as much as I could anyway, “You should see the other guy.”

He looked at the plunger he just scanned, holding it up to scrutiny before dropping it in the bag. “Um…I don’t doubt it.”



I learned something odd…cleaning the mess out of the bathroom… apparently, a strong healthy man can pee…over six feet up on the wall.

Yeah. Over six feet.

Six feet, nine inches in point of fact. I measured, just before I washed down and then sanitized the wall paper. Which was just after I took down the pee-covered bamboo shelf on the wall above the toilet so I could hose it down outside.

If, for some reason you see the need to test that…don’t.

Of course, it’ll probably come up on one of those nights your wife is gone…one of those manly nights when you do the things you shouldn’t…nachos and margaritas flow…and suddenly there’s the need for…the test.

Six feet, nine inches. It’s a lofty goal. Keep in mind I think the diaphragm is what’s important here. To get the extra height you must have the correct tension and action of the diaphragm.

I’m pretty sure screaming like a cheerleader on helium is what does the trick.

Daniel Meyer

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