Yesterday I was visiting one of my favourite live music venues in Calgary, Broken City.
The sun was out--it's golden rays warming all the lovely Steam Whistle Pilsner drinkers on their rooftop patio--and life, at that moment, seemed perfect.
Then I went back to my truck, which was parked in the alleyway, only to discover a rough looking guy pissing behind my wheels.
A- "Sorry, buddy! But at my age, when you got to go, you got to go!"
B- "How old are you?"
A- "Forty seven."
B- "Well, to be honest, I hope when I hit your age I'm not so incontinent that I start taking slashes, in broad daylight, behind bright green trucks, in busy alleyways. You couldn't have picked a more conspicuous place to piss, pal."
A- "Yeah, well. . . you got any samples?"
I need to emphasize that while this exchange is taking place, he's still pissing.
B- "I think that you've had plenty of hydration."
What possessed him to try and solicit free beer from me while while standing behind my truck with his penis in his hands I'll never know.
I tried to back out extra slow so that I didn't splash any of the effluence on my lovely unnamed truck.