A Pot to Piss In

At least three times yesterday I heard some variation of the phrase, "doesn't have a pot to piss in." I noticed it more than would normally be the case because, as it happpens, I do have a pot to piss in. Well, a bucket. A jug. A plastic container.

My visit to the doctor on Thursday resulted in, among other things, my taking home a large orange plastic "piss jug," which I was directed to use to capture and store all of my urine output during a twenty-four hour period that ends at 8:30 this morning. You wouldn't think a requirement to capture one's piss in an orange piss jug would crimp one's style. Well, it does. I can only imagine how much more of an inconvenience it must be for a woman. I mean, if I chose to do so, I could lug my jug about with me and make deposits on the sly. Not so with a woman. How do they deal with such dictates?

At any rate, my impending freedom from being chained to an orange piss jug is making me giddy. I woke up early, again, and had enormous amounts of energy moderately more stamina than usual. I washed dishes, made coffee, made a couple of deposits into my jug, and roamed the Internet for a bit.

Now, what to do? I suppose I'll wait around until my doctor's office opens and giddily throw open the doors and ask with a broad smile, "Where shall I deposit my pot to piss in?"