A Stranger in My Own Land
Have you ever had to piss so badly that your whole body hurt? Your ears begin to ring in that high-pitched dog whistle sort of way that renders them useless. This is stage one. At the same time your stomach muscles contract as if sucker punched by a nonexistent bully. It is much like the helpless feeling you experience while sitting in the back seat of your parents’ car on a family vacation to Washington DC as yet another rest area whizzes past.
After the first hour you enter stage two as this intense physical pain begins to subside and your body learns to cope. It then falls into a type of mild paralysis where only essential movements are performed. Normal thought and vision become impaired at this stage of urinary deprivation as the walls of your bladder are stretched tighter than a snare drum. When you realize that there is no end in sight the intense pain resumes in the form of sharp abdominal cramping. It is like a form of torture.
Logic and reason elude you as you enter the third and final stage of pee deprivation. The search for the nearest urinal or secluded stand of evergreens to purge the warm yellow demons from your body consumes your mind. Instincts of self-preservation take over as you are forced to forget problems of the world around you. Stage three - the search for relief - consumes every fiber of your being. At the end of this last stage you enter a strange alternate universe devoid of meaning and context. Relief becomes your only God and the porcelain orifice its holy temple.
The cramps and pain have subsided since the last time my body has endured this type of pain, but the memory of my exposure to this most innovative form of torture remains. It was January 20 of this year and I was in Washington DC, not to visit the Smithsonian, but to voice my displeasure with the inauguration of George W Bush into his second term in office. The last time I visited the Washington Monument I remember it being much easier to find a public restroom.
My roommates and I had driven all night through a blizzard in West Virginia and Maryland to reach DC by 8:00 AM. In order to stay awake through the snowy Cumberland Gap I guzzled all of the contents of a thermos full of piping-hot coffee. Time and kidneys did their work and 1.5 liters of coffee landed squarely in my bladder as I surfaced from the subway on Government Square. It was here where I entered the first stage.
The 8th Amendment to the United States Constitution, in a section known as the Bill of Rights, protects citizens of this nation from any type of cruel and unusual punishment. Ironically enough this document was being displayed at the National Archives just blocks away from the spot where thousands of US citizens were lined up like cattle in a slaughterhouse yard without restroom facilities in the name of national security.
In this line we waited nearly two hours to be nonchalantly patted down by DHS agents and National Guard troops. I cringed gingerly hoping not to have an accident as a man in cammos patted my bladder in search of my nonexistent vile of anthrax. The numbing effects of stage two allowed me to pass my frisking without incident. I could hold out for a little longer. There had to be a rest area at the next exit.
After we passed through the DHS checkpoint we were asked for our inauguration tickets. These passes were distributed through Ticketmaster to qualifying Bush campaign donors and RNC supporters. Those with tickets were granted access to the corral to the left and readily available public restrooms. Those who were concerned about the dangerous political climate in their country went to the corral on the right with no public restrooms.
This path of dissent followed a long series of barricades that led us from the DHS checkpoint to a holding pen the Parks Department created for us far away from network television cameras and their audiences. Thankfully the US Parks Department, National Guard, and Department of Homeland Security and police officers from all over the nation were on hand to ensure our safety, and make sure that nobody took a piss in public.
At 10:00 AM I cold take the pain no longer. I had entered stage three and something had to be done. I left my spot in the protester pen not knowing if I would be allowed to reenter. My spirit had been broken. The organizers of the inauguration had succeeded in their mission. If you were there in support of the president and his amoral policies you were cared for well. If you were there to voice your dissent your needs as a human being were simply disregarded. The United States government now has political repression down to a science. Make the crowds uncomfortable and they will stay at home.
After a frantic search for a port-o-let proved unfruitful I came upon a small coffee shop and entered into my own personal Twilight Zone. The scene in the small cafe was surreal. It was filled with well over 50 police officers from all over the country gorging themselves on a buffet line of fried chicken and beef tips in heavy gravy. There were only two toilets, both occupied. The pain in my abdomen carved out a maniacal look in my eyes as I staired in disbelief behind four cops from four different cities all holding the same Styrofoam cups full of the same bad coffee all mocking my plight.
I struggled to find some common denominator of humanity with these burly men being paid to protect me from terrorists who hate my freedom. It was a freedom I did not know. The only thing that was real to me that cold day in January was the pain I felt deep inside. Sadly, it had nothing to do with my bladder.
One of the cops looked up from his coffee and glanced back at me as I winced in pain and muttered to his partner "I wonder what's wrong with this one?" There would be no relief on the other side of the door to the toilet because I knew that I would have to come back out. My capital was a state of martial law. The Washington DC that I had visited as a kid was now gone and there was nothing I could to change it that day. It was a sad day, January 20, 2005, when I realized I had become a stranger in my own land.
After the first hour you enter stage two as this intense physical pain begins to subside and your body learns to cope. It then falls into a type of mild paralysis where only essential movements are performed. Normal thought and vision become impaired at this stage of urinary deprivation as the walls of your bladder are stretched tighter than a snare drum. When you realize that there is no end in sight the intense pain resumes in the form of sharp abdominal cramping. It is like a form of torture.
Logic and reason elude you as you enter the third and final stage of pee deprivation. The search for the nearest urinal or secluded stand of evergreens to purge the warm yellow demons from your body consumes your mind. Instincts of self-preservation take over as you are forced to forget problems of the world around you. Stage three - the search for relief - consumes every fiber of your being. At the end of this last stage you enter a strange alternate universe devoid of meaning and context. Relief becomes your only God and the porcelain orifice its holy temple.
The cramps and pain have subsided since the last time my body has endured this type of pain, but the memory of my exposure to this most innovative form of torture remains. It was January 20 of this year and I was in Washington DC, not to visit the Smithsonian, but to voice my displeasure with the inauguration of George W Bush into his second term in office. The last time I visited the Washington Monument I remember it being much easier to find a public restroom.
My roommates and I had driven all night through a blizzard in West Virginia and Maryland to reach DC by 8:00 AM. In order to stay awake through the snowy Cumberland Gap I guzzled all of the contents of a thermos full of piping-hot coffee. Time and kidneys did their work and 1.5 liters of coffee landed squarely in my bladder as I surfaced from the subway on Government Square. It was here where I entered the first stage.
The 8th Amendment to the United States Constitution, in a section known as the Bill of Rights, protects citizens of this nation from any type of cruel and unusual punishment. Ironically enough this document was being displayed at the National Archives just blocks away from the spot where thousands of US citizens were lined up like cattle in a slaughterhouse yard without restroom facilities in the name of national security.
In this line we waited nearly two hours to be nonchalantly patted down by DHS agents and National Guard troops. I cringed gingerly hoping not to have an accident as a man in cammos patted my bladder in search of my nonexistent vile of anthrax. The numbing effects of stage two allowed me to pass my frisking without incident. I could hold out for a little longer. There had to be a rest area at the next exit.
After we passed through the DHS checkpoint we were asked for our inauguration tickets. These passes were distributed through Ticketmaster to qualifying Bush campaign donors and RNC supporters. Those with tickets were granted access to the corral to the left and readily available public restrooms. Those who were concerned about the dangerous political climate in their country went to the corral on the right with no public restrooms.
This path of dissent followed a long series of barricades that led us from the DHS checkpoint to a holding pen the Parks Department created for us far away from network television cameras and their audiences. Thankfully the US Parks Department, National Guard, and Department of Homeland Security and police officers from all over the nation were on hand to ensure our safety, and make sure that nobody took a piss in public.
At 10:00 AM I cold take the pain no longer. I had entered stage three and something had to be done. I left my spot in the protester pen not knowing if I would be allowed to reenter. My spirit had been broken. The organizers of the inauguration had succeeded in their mission. If you were there in support of the president and his amoral policies you were cared for well. If you were there to voice your dissent your needs as a human being were simply disregarded. The United States government now has political repression down to a science. Make the crowds uncomfortable and they will stay at home.
After a frantic search for a port-o-let proved unfruitful I came upon a small coffee shop and entered into my own personal Twilight Zone. The scene in the small cafe was surreal. It was filled with well over 50 police officers from all over the country gorging themselves on a buffet line of fried chicken and beef tips in heavy gravy. There were only two toilets, both occupied. The pain in my abdomen carved out a maniacal look in my eyes as I staired in disbelief behind four cops from four different cities all holding the same Styrofoam cups full of the same bad coffee all mocking my plight.
I struggled to find some common denominator of humanity with these burly men being paid to protect me from terrorists who hate my freedom. It was a freedom I did not know. The only thing that was real to me that cold day in January was the pain I felt deep inside. Sadly, it had nothing to do with my bladder.
One of the cops looked up from his coffee and glanced back at me as I winced in pain and muttered to his partner "I wonder what's wrong with this one?" There would be no relief on the other side of the door to the toilet because I knew that I would have to come back out. My capital was a state of martial law. The Washington DC that I had visited as a kid was now gone and there was nothing I could to change it that day. It was a sad day, January 20, 2005, when I realized I had become a stranger in my own land.
posted by Yonder Vittles at 2:40 AM
1 Comments:
I am really sorry if anyone actually read the first draft of this post. I don't think that the author even knew what the hell he was talking about by the time that story rolled over and died. This version should actually have a thesis!
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