Game Reviews

The Urinater

“Herbert, get your fat arse in here right now” the high pitched screech of his wife of 27 years cut through the cigarette smoke filled air of the living room.

Herbert shifted his podgy body reluctantly from the tatty corduroy couch and shuffled his way towards the toilet, a half drunk can of ale clutched in his right hand, where Sally stood at the open door attired in her usual threadbare, wine stained dressing gown. He stood sullenly in front of her and with his eyes half cocked, gazed emptily at the peeling vinyl floor.
“What’s the matter my sweet?”

“What’s the matter? What’s the bloody matter?” Sally slapped the back of his head and pointed at the toilet, “that’s the matter you filthy pig, you been pissing standing up again, haven’t you?”
“No, I haven’t, my love, I promise,” he whined pathetically.

Sally grabbed his right ear and propelled him towards the open porcelain depositary. Thrusting his face just inches away from the brim, “look at this, yellow piss everywhere – here” she banged his forehead onto the soaked surround, “and here,” the stretched ear pulling his head over to the peeling mould riddled Donald Duck wall paper now dripping with pee.

“I’m a woman of class, you know! Or I was till I stupidly married you. Clean this up now and if it happens again there will be no more sex” With that she rammed Herbert’s head against the wall and stormed out.

“You can’t do that,” he wailed to her disappearing back, I have conjurers’ rights.”

“You will be needing a bloody conjurer to get your rocks off in the future, because my hole will vanish if I see that again, I am sick of you thinking yourself as Arnold Schwarzenegger starring in The Urinator, You will sit on the shitter or you can pull your pudding till judgement day,” she ranted as she went back into the living room to watch a repeat of Diet Doctors. She just loved seeing women with bodies worse than hers, especially those with fungi growing under the fat rolls of their stomachs.

“Today will be a day of great happenings – if today you have something to celebrate, go out and have fun.” Sally read out loud from the ‘Your Stars in the Sky’ column from The Sun newspaper. She read her star sign, Gemini, daily. Once when it had said it would be her lucky day she had bought a scratch card at the off licence and won 10.
“Herbert, it’s our 30th wedding anniversary. You can take me tonight to that new pub that’s opened on the High-Street, Mavis says it’s very posh. I’ll give her a ring and get her and Albert to meet us there.”

Herbert didn’t mind. Albert was an all right sort of bloke and if Sally got pissed enough he might get his way, especially as he had been sitting diligently for a pee the last three years. Besides, she would natter local gossip for hours with Mavis and leave him in peace for a change. “What a good idea, my lotus blossom,” he replied.

“Another pint of your best larger and a packet of crisps, landlord,” Herbert said to the balding man behind the bar. He was well pleased and well drunk. The evening was going fine. He looked around at the dcor. Things had changed since the smoking ban had been introduced and the pub had been completely converted to accommodate a different class of clientele. It wasn’t his scene but times are a’ changing and even he could see that a lot of money had been invested in the high tech gadgetry of high definition televisions liberally scattered on the walls between Andy Warhol prints. He felt a bit out of place amongst the well dressed and glowingly healthy drinkers seated on black leather armchairs around shining stainless steel designer tables, but he didn’t care. Sally’s voice had become increasingly louder with every glass of gin and tonic she drank, hardly noticing that Herbert had ordered a triple shot at every opportunity. Things were going to plan and the thought of squeaking bed springs later on permeated his befuddled mind with carnal lust.

“I will be back in a moment my dear, just going to the toilet”, he announced as he placed the drinks on their table. Herbert’s years of boozing meant that he could drink at least eight pints before needing to relieve himself. Sally ignored him and he wandered off. Entering the MENS, he whistled with amazement. Everything in stainless steel, with matching black marble wash basins tops, the urinals were perfectly flush mounted, the fixings hidden beneath the highly polished slabs of sandstone. Out of habit he headed for the toilet, only to find the door locked and from the soft farting and appreciative grunts emitting from under the door, he concluded the occupant was having a serious session of internal cleansing that could last a while. Herbert needed to relieve himself fast; the pain of his gigantically swollen bladder was getting through even his numbed nervous system.

Sally only noticed Herbert’s absence when her glass had stood empty for half an hour and as she looked around for him, several heavily equipped firemen entered the premises, startling even Mavis into silence in the middle of a description of her athlete’s foot. There seemed to be some commotion near the entrance to the public toilets and Sally’s curiosity got the better of her and after a moments of gazing around looking for her absent husband she decided to see what was going on, when suddenly the high pitched screams of Albert could be heard above the excited babble and delirious laughter of the packed pub.

Using her bulk, Sally forced her way through the tightly packed crowd of on-lookers till she had finally struggled her way to the open door of the MENS. There she finally found Herbert, bent double, his face almost touching his knees, his trousers down to his ankles and his large backside stuffed deeply into the oval of one of the shining urinals. His shrieks of agony audible even above the incredible noise of the two massive angle grinders the fireman were using to cut through the sides of the chrome tempered steel that held him fast in its grip. Through the massive twin arcs of sparks spraying around him and the pain of burning iron filings floating down like sparklers to melt into his thinning scalp, Albert caught the eyes of his astonished wife and screeched his frustration –

“This is all your fault you stupid cow, and now they’re frying my sausage and fucking eggs!”

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J.A. Laraque

J.A. Laraque is a freelance writer and novelist. His passion for writing mixed with a comedic style and intelligent commentary has brought him success in his various endeavors. Whatever the subject, J.A. has an opinion on it and will present it in writing with an insight and flair that is both refreshing and informative.

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