The Sad Tale of Mr. Happy

Since the beginning of time, man has been burdened with a "what the hell is going on here?" problem-a problem that no woman could possibly understand.

I know women have to deal with childbirth and menstrual periods and all that crap. And believe me; I am plenty glad that I don't have to worry about all the weird-ass stuff that happens to the female body. But we men have an affliction of our own to deal with--something that women should be relieved to know will never happen to them.

There is not a man alive who hasn't experienced the following scenario:

It is six o'clock Sunday morning and, after a night of drinking roughly ten gallons of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, you have to go empty out the old bladder. Half asleep, you walk slowly to the bathroom, position yourself in front of the toilet, lift the seat--maybe--and reach down for Mr. Happy. Except you don't really have to reach down for Mr. Happy because Mr. Happy is standing straight up with a big smile on his face, as if you'd just been checking out the latest edition of "Big Boob Mamas" magazine.

The problem here, of course, is that sex is really the last thing on your mind-all you want to do is relieve the incredible pressure on your bladder, stroll back to bed, slip under the covers, and fall back into a coma until approximately Monday afternoon. And compounding the problem is the fact that it is nearly impossible to empty the old bladder when Mr. Happy is wide awake and staring you right in the face.

The truly unfortunate thing about all of this is that Mr. Happy is standing up taller and prouder than he ever has before and you're thinking what a waste it is because right now your main concern is that your bladder feels like it will burst in about thirty seconds! And you stand there and try to think of what to do, which is really difficult for you because your brain currently has almost no blood flowing to it.

And it's not like you can make the damn thing go limp by taking your mind off of sex, because you weren't even thinking about sex when the little bugger decided to morph from Mini-Me into Shaquille O'Neal!

So you find yourself shifting nearly all of your weight to your left foot, raising your right leg up in the air as far as possible, and attempting to point Shaq downward towards the toilet without losing your balance and falling headfirst into the bathtub. Unfortunately, the only person in the world physically able to perform such a feat is currently appearing with Cirque Du Soleil.

You end up just standing there and you wait...and wait...and wait some more until, at last, Shaq begins to relax and slowly melts like Nixon's face during the 1960 presidential debates. And as you stand there with your eyes closed and Mini-Me hanging down over the toilet, your bladder muscles release and finally, the most wonderful feeling of relief! And then you slowly trudge back to bed, slip under the covers, and fall back into the arms of The Sandman.

Exactly what causes this terrible affliction is a mystery. Countless studies by some of the finest minds in modern science have resulted in nothing more than "educated guesses" absent of hard facts. Some theorize it has something to do with global warming; others think the problem is due to heavy cell phone usage; and there is even a small faction that insists there is a link to 9/11.

Whatever the cause, my hope is that eventually there will be a cure. I look forward to the morning I can crawl out of bed, stroll to the bathroom, stand at the toilet, look down and find Mini-Me looking as sleepy and droopy as I feel.

Or, as my wife might say...

Like he always looks.