Parrothead Ramblings

Man, these things look real.

I just read in the paper that Onterrio Smith of the Minnesota Vikings got caught at the Minneapolis Airport with a vial of white powder. No not that white powder. This is even better. Smith got taken down with a vial of dried piss.

No big deal, I guess. I'm sure a lot of people travel with a supply of dried piss. You never know when you might need some. Be prepared, I say. I can't tell you how many times I've been in a quandary I could have easily solved if I just had some dried piss. In Smith's case, the piss came with a device called "The Whizzinator." Now, his is basically just a fake dick. There's a lot of those around, too. I'm sure there's plenty of women who won't leave home without one, along with an ample supply of batteries. But the "Whizzinator" doesn't light up, vibrate, hum, or even come in colors of the rainbow. It has some sort of bladder-type thing attached, and is used by idiot millionaire athletes so they can get stoned, juiced, baked, stoned, fried, or whatever, and still pass their drug tests. Now, I don't know how this dried urine thing works. I suppose it's just like Kool-Aid - mix it with water and use as directed. Fill the bladder up, stuff the whole contraption down your pants, and then whip out the phony crank for the tester.

At first blush, I thought it would have to be pretty realistic-looking. But then it dawned on me: Guys are experts at averting their eyes in a restroom. That's why all your finer beer joints put up sports pages and stuff over the urinals. The Monastery has scantily-clad women above theirs, and The Vine in Tempe actually has little TVs tuned to sports channels. The only mark against Teakwoods in Gilbert is that stupid flower picture over their urinals. Somebody got fed up with it and put up their own ugly-ass caricature of some apparently ugly-ass guy. The flower was better. My good phriend Oscar at Cafe Posada in Gilbert left the remodelling of their restrooms up to his fetching wife and co-owner, Susan. I have to admit, the men's room is beautiful, but in a women's clinic waiting-room sort of way.

But I digress. We were talking about fake dicks and dried urine. The poor testers are now going to need to look much closer, and that really sucks. What are they supposed to do?

Tester: "OK, Onterrio. You know the drill. Fill 'er up."

Smith: "You got it. Excuse me, while I whip this out."

zzzzzip!

Tester: "Whoa! Hold the phone there, big fella. Just what the hell is that.

Smith: "What? This? That, my friend, is a man-size chunk of snake."

Tester: "Sorry, I'm going to have to examine a little closer....let's see here.....geez, what in the name of Cleavon Little is that?

Smith: "Oh, that? Ummmm, it's a ......errrrr.....oh, it's a tatoo. Yeah, that's it, a tatoo."

Tester: "You're shitting me. You have a tattoo of an "XL" on your dick? It looks like a size tag to me.

Smith: "Um, yeah. See, the ladies think it's the shiznit."

Tester: "I don't know what the fuck a shiznit is, but there's also a bar code on your dick. I guess that's part of the tattoo? You didn't have that last week when you tested."

Smith: "Naw, man. That's new."

Tester: "And that little string there? The one with a price tag on it from "Whiz Mart?"

Smith: "Shit......."
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