The Wee Dance

I know I've already covered the subject of uncool bodily fluids and the bad timing that usually follows them, but what can I say, it has a lot to be said for it.

Now, if you're a sad person like me, and you think having a good time with your friends is parading around a dark room with epileptic seizure inspiring light shows, sweaty people in skimpy clothing that try to touch you when you walk past, and ear shattering grenade-like sounds some people like to call "music", drinking highly over priced poisonous liquid colour additives in order to actually like the place enough to stay there the rest of the night, you will know what I'm talking about. If not, stop looking at me and keep reading your Bible, little boy.

It's the wonderfully entertaining cultural event that can only be properly enjoyed when it's happening to other people than yourself. It's the wee dance.

You'll see it at night clubs or bars with only one toilet per sex, lines and lines of women, sometimes men (but come on, there's never a line in the men's toilet, bastards), wiggeling, squeezing, stepping, riverdancing, throwing wild tics and tantrums, thrashing and whining, all to keep their lemons intact til that magic toilet door opens. Like fancy shamans from a different world they conjure up the demons of the force of the drunken wee wee relief, like samurai's with no skills or control what so ever, but a very pressing mission. The artform deserves its own music style, something like a cross between Rednex remixed with Enya, you just never know if it will take off in a frantic linedance or end in a mellow hymn to the waters of below.

If only it were a mating ritual, or something useful, but alas, it is an artform doomed to be forgotten with the shady guy in tweed by the bar, who asked you for a dance and a PayPal donation...

Shit Reborn

I don't get out much. That way I manage to avoid human contact and the problems that brings with it, but sometimes even I have to go out and get life's necessities, like useless plastic thingies that satisfy my materialistic ego, candy and pretty shiny things (because I’m a girl). That's when it happens. Not being built like a camel, I all of a sudden have to wee, right there in the torture of a shopping centre, like the rest of the worlds population, except royalty naturally.

In a wild panic I try to round up the nearest toilet, forcing my way through old people and children like a brute on caffeine, and when I finally find that lovely green sign with Lego people demonstrating that this is where joy is unleashed, there is also a tiny sign next to a coin slot telling me to "please spit up some coins, I only take these specific kinds of coins". I peek into my wallet, only sporting larger notes (because I’m so god damned rich, that’s why) and the phone number of that Tottenham fan I only liked because he fell off the bar trying to dance the Macarena, but doing so he looked like Batman folding out his steel wings. Eyeing me from a coin exchange window is a security guard, and I have a sudden urge for my clawing hands to have a close encounter with his collar.

Is it not enough that going shopping at a shopping centre is like being raped from behind by an elephant, both price- and space wise? Walking in a line from the sliding doors to the exit, listening to pan pipe music covering the great touchy feely movies of the 90’s, kids crying, housewives moaning at the lack of cheap pastel trinket shit, subservient men whimpering behind their mad, shopping wives, scratching at their collar, sweating behind a grandmother with her seven grandkids who wants to know whether the stiff price on the ugly, canary yellow sweater she's thinking of buying for her and her husbands anniversary has anything to do with the hurricane that trashed the cotton farms in Egypt, and when she may expect it to end. Being caught behind elderly people with their walkers of terror and mothers with their wide SUV-like twin strollers, never letting you pass unless you go all Gandalf on them, and that’s when the security guard comes and takes you away, and that way you will never get to the loo anyway. Come to think of it, they should really pay ME to come there to shop.

But there I am, doing my little full bladder dance whilst waiting for the security guard to give me back my change, knowing all too well why all shopping centres have café’s or Burger Blings on every corner selling jumbo sized drinking cups, making the customers into living urinary tracks financing the richie rich tool that owns the centre. Perhaps a tiny portion of it goes to the hard working immigrant cleaning the loo’s, which he spends buying knitting pins for his wife back in Gracklapkistan, that’s all great yeah, supporting the industrial development of third world countries, but we know most of that money goes to richie rich and the state, which means our loo money ends up in the pockets of our politicians, and there you have it my friends:

Shit turns to shit.