By the time I got to the office building where my interview was to take place, I was drunk and perspiring heavily from my bike ride, but I had an even more urgent problem that needed attention.  I had to pee.  Mustering all the bladder control at my command, I trotted across the lobby toward the men's room trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.  But the closer I got, the worse was the urge to go.  Reaching down I grabbed my wiener just as it was getting ready to squirt all over the inside of my pants.

Entering the bathroom, I almost tore the door off its hinges as I raced over to the urinals and tried to pull my wee wee out.  But now I had a little problem in my hands.  How to let go of my wee wee without going pee pee in my pants.

I did what I had to do and let go just long enough so that I could thrust my wee wee out of my pants without peeing myself.  This idea worked in principal, but it did not work in practice. As soon as I let go of my wee wee, but before I could get it out and pointed at the target, the pee pee shot down the leg of my khaki colored pants. 

It was a messy process, but I was peeing and it felt so good that it sent a shiver up my spine.  As I stood there in a state of blissful relief I swooned back and forth, splashing pee all over the place.  Who cares about aiming when something feels so good?  I tried to correct my aim, but it was too late.

The guy whose shoes I had just peed on looked down at his piss covered shoes and then into my eyes and started to call me names.  I just looked at him, told him to go f*** himself and continued with what had become a pee-pee marathon. 

It wasn't until after I spewed out this profanity that I noticed the name on his I.D. badge and realized that I had just slit my own throat ear to ear.  It was the guy who I had the job interview with.  Most people get fired for pissing off the boss, I was about to get fired before I was hired for pissing on the boss.  Another million dollar opportunity gone in a splash.

I can't say I was devastated by this news.  Hell, compared to most of the things that were happening to me lately, this was nothing.  What had happened had been unfortunate but tragically unavoidable. 

What concerned me now was that I had pissed my pants.  Not actually a full blown pissing of the pants, but definitely streakers.  You know, the blotch of wet spots you get on your pants when you forget to tap-tap and you get this big wet stain on the crotch your khaki pants.  Whatever the technical term, I now sported a crotch that was clearly and damningly damp.  I tried to cover it up the best I could by splashing water all over my pants, in hopes people would assume I spilled a glass of water on my pants.  The deception, however did not work. I looked like I had peed my pants, and there was no hiding it.

Walking outside, I looked for my bike and saw that someone had stolen it.  Now that's humanity for you, the nerve of someone stealing a bike that I had only just stolen myself!  At least I could get rid some of the guilt I was feeling for taking it in the first place.  With nothing else better to do, I walked over to a bench to rest my weary ass and to ponder my current situation.

To summarize: I was broke, had no job, and my stomach kicked in with a cramp and let me know that it was time for lunch.  I looked at my watch and saw that it was only 10:30 in the morning, not really time for lunch.  So for a moment, I just sat there in a stupor. But after a couple of severe stomach cramps I gave in and went in search of something to eat.

Let's face it, stomachs are selfish no good, rotten, uncooperative organs.  As long as the food pipeline remained open, they didn't care what the rest of the body might be going through.  But as soon as the food pipeline is cut off, the stomach completely shuts down the rest of the body until it is fed.

Fortunately, in the city you never have to look far to find food.  Most of the time there's some food slinger with a battered cart standing on each block with some sort of spoiled meat product suitable for ramming down your gullet.

My stomach and taste buds were two separate entities so it didn't much matter what I found.  The taste buds knew we were poor and accepted the fact that taste was a rich man's luxury; my stomach could have cared less what the substances tasted like, as long as it was full.  It had learned to make do with whatever it got. 

Behind the geographically nearest hot dog wagon I was greeted by a foulmouthed, grimy hot dog vendor dressed in an old New York Yankees baseball shirt.  In my haste to acquire sustenance, I accidentally elbowed a bag of chips off the grease‑smeared counter of his cart and onto the ground.

"What's your hurry, dick head, headed for a fire?"       

After one of the sh***iest mornings of my life, I was definitely not in the mood to take any sh** from this smart mouth street vermin.  I decided to respond in kind. 

"F**k you pal, just give me a couple of those pig dicks and keep the crude remarks to your self."      

Figuring that this impromptu comeback would prove my manly-hood, I looked straight into his eyes and waited for a response.  He just looked at me like he was picturing what it would be like to stick my face in a pot of boiling, slimy, putrid hot dog water and he began to tell me off.      

"So, Mr. Big Shot, you think just because you're wearing a suite and tie, that you can talk to me like I'm a schmuck?  Look, f**k face, I feed slobs like you all day long and I don't need your stinking attitude."       

Now I was pissed.  I didn't need a lecture; all I wanted was a couple of f***ing hot dogs.  What the hell was the world coming to these days?      

Look, just give me a couple of pig dicks and we'll call it even. Okay?"       

Not wanting to loose a quick sale, he looked at me and began to compromise.

"You know, mister, it's a good thing that I'm a nice guy. Tell you what I'm going to do.  I'll sell you two pig dicks for $5 bucks each."     

"Five bucks each!"  I protested. “That’s robbery!"       

The guy just looked at me with an expression that made it clear that he was not about to waive the Ass-hole Tax that he had resolved to impose, which left me with a serious problem on my hands.  Swallow my pride, or starve my stomach.  At this thought my stomach threw a quick series of cramps urging me to cooperate. Defeated, I motioned for the guy to give me the pig wieners.    

I couldn't believe it.  The simple act of filling my gullet had turned into a life and death struggle and a melody of insults from a filthy hot dog peddling scum bag which I certainly did not need at this twisted juncture of my life.  With my stomach cramping, I grudgingly handed over the ten bucks, grabbed my dogs, and skulked off to stuff my face in private where nobody could see me devour the pig wieners.