Ok, so this story probably falls into the “Entirely Too Much Information” category, but you will almost certainly recognize it as one of those things that ONLY happens to me. 😉

 So there I was…

…sitting down to dinner at a strip-mall restaurant called “Pacific Island Bistro” that we’d found in a flyer. It proudly boasted a Pacific-Rim/Asian fusion cuisine that sounded as creative as it did delicious…at least to John & Rosa

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. For my part, I’ve never been one to get too excited about Chinese food, which is what I picture when I hear food described as “Asian.” Still, there was a pineapple roast duck mentioned in the flyer that sounded good.

Walking into the restaurant, it could have been any Chinese take-out place anywhere in the US. There was nothing particularly special about it that would minimize the cheesy atmosphere that it shared with its mainland siblings. Noting this, I sarcastically wondered…to myself of course…I think…why I flew to Kauai for Chinese take-out. At precisely the same moment, the universe, with its infinite surplus of untapped mischief, selected its target for the evening, and proceeded with its plan to amuse itself at my expense…again.

I was quite hungry when we sat down. I scoured the menu’s carefully crafted prose for something that seemed to describe a sizable hunk of meat. There were several items that stood out, each of them featuring roast duck. Among these was the pineapple roast duck mentioned in the flyer. That was it, then. How could I ignore such a coincidence? You could almost hear the universe giggling as we ordered.

When the food arrived, both John and Rosa were very happy with what they had ordered. They complimented their meals after every few bites, while I stared awkwardly down at a bowl filled with a bright yellow liquid and small chunks of pineapple. Hmm…they must have served me a bowl of soup by mistake, I think…I hope. Seconds later, our smiling waitress would clear up the confusion; I had indeed ordered a bowl of warm, thickened pineapple juice with small chunks of pineapple, and even smaller bits of some form of poultry said to be duck. Meanwhile, my dining companions appeared immersed in quite the enjoyable, Pacific-Rim dining experience. “OK,” I thought. “One disappointing meal. No biggie.” This time, I’m almost certain I heard the universe snicker.

As I waited for my friends to finish their meals, we laughed about my pineapple soup and decided to go elsewhere for dessert. Satisfied that the disappointment was at an end, I got up, and headed to the men’s room. It was a dirty little room, the kind that causes one instinctively to tip-toe and to contort the limbs in an effort to avoid contact with any nearby surface. Having successfully navigated the hazards, I approached the urinal and began the process of relieving myself into the stained, porcelain wall fixture. Staring unfocused at the blank wall before me, as all men must, I laughed some more about the vast culinary distance between pineapple soup and roasted duck, all the while enjoying the cool mist on my ankles. I pictured the person writing the menu…

…Wait…cool mist? Why is there a cool mist on my ankles?

I quickly looked down to ensure that I was on target, and not emptying my bladder onto my feet. Everything looked good. Solid stream. Dead center. No splatter. Whew. I resumed staring at the wall, comforted by the knowledge that I was not peeing on my own feet. Still, I was admittedly unnerved by the fact that the source of the cool mist, which continued to caress my ankles, was as of yet undiscovered. It would be an understatement to say that the curiosity was killing me. Without interrupting my current task, I carefully leaned as far as I could to one side, bending at the waist, to view the underside of the urinal. Once in position, I saw a stream of liquid dripping from the bottom of the the curved trap portion of the drain. “Yikes,” I thought. Surely there must have been a fresh-water leak flowing down the back of the urinal and dripping from the underside of the drain trap, making it appear as though it were leaking from the drain. To test this theory, I briefly interrupted my stream (NOT an easy task for a man) to see if the leak from the trap stopped. It did. Ok…not a fresh-water leak. The universe must have been howling with laughter by now.

Left only with denial as a viable coping mechanism for the situation that I now faced, I giggled…yes, giggled…at how coincidentally the leak had stopped shortly after I did, making it APPEAR as though my own pee was exiting the urinal drain and splashing onto my feet. I resumed, artificially comforted by my new theory. I was in the home stretch now…almost there. Then came the cool mist. Dammit. I scowled as I finished, zipped, flushed, and washed. I exited the men’s room, still scowling, hoping that washing my hands was more hygienically effective than it was emotionally comforting. When I arrived at the table, my friends were finished eating so I sat down and told them about my little adventure. They stared at me in disbelief, and as I listened to myself telling the story, I’m pretty sure the universe laughed so hard that it wet itself. So, I felt pretty good about that, anyway. 🙂




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