Swords

Greetings!

In what appears to be my final year at Boston College, I have found myself overwhelmed with a strong sense of nostalgia. Perhaps from the dwindling moments I have to live off my roommates or the fact that I have just emerged from a saturated fat/sex induced coma, but I find myself on a daily basis trying to relive the good ol' days.

No, I am not talking about my days of lore at 'Da 'Field' (how I believe a colored man would refer to Deerfield Academy), but more so the days of my youth, potty training in particular. How I long to revert to the days of sprinting to the toilet, tossing in a tinkle target, and unleashing the beast. For those of you that are unfamilar with tinkle targets and/or are peasants, a tickle target is a small, 2" paper square with a bullseye on it. The concept is, that by adding a floating target to the peeing experience, one hones their craft through focus and accuracy.

Being one of four brothers, that challenge of a duel was a daily occurance--penises at noon. It was my parents master bathroom where the water works would insue. 3 paces, turn, and be the first to hit the target. Boys being boys, there was naturally much debate over the actually winner.

During one such occasion, Bill, my older and much wiser brother, failed to prove his argument through diction and felt it appropriate to micturate on my Pumps. Out of pee, 6 inches shorter (in height, not length--you dog!) my only option was to save face and flush. I had a plan.

The next 4 days were spent in solitude in the back yard with a garden hose. Experimenting with different flows, different angles, and different positions, I was prepared to regain my honor.

A quart of cranberry juice and a glove slap later, Bill and I, were once again, in the bathroom, weapons drawn and target in place. "Why wouldnt I want the last shot...when I know I've already made it..." Phase 1--The Fenway Freeze. Bill turned and fired an angry stream that splatter painted the back of the tank, while I managed a calcualted dribble on my fluffy sausage fingers. Phase 2--Eye of the Tiger. Bill, supremely confident in my inability to produce a stream, worthy enough for the porcline gods, taunted the target with a circular stream, teasing me. I slowly placed my index finger over the top of my urethra, leaving only the top eigth open. The flood gates opened, the stream of Gotty Pee shot straight across the bowl and into the unsuspecting eyes of my older counterpart. Rearing back in anger and urine, I jumped back in fear and amazement of my accuracy. With only a faint pee-rainbow seperating the two combatents, I shot what was left, annialating the target as Bill's fist followed suit to my face.

Clear eyes, full hearts-->CANT MISS!

Chris 'He just dat Canadien' Gotty