The endurance of nicturation (peein’ lots)

Went with the Wife to see This is 40 last weekend (great movie, by the way), but on the way out, I noticed something.

I pee a lot.

I don’t mean I urinate frequently. Though that does happen when I have a couple of cups of coffee. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Seriously, what coffee does to me isn’t fun. If you’re busting to find out how I turn into Michael friggin’ Flatley’s Lord of the Pee Pee Dance, click here. But I’m not talking about that.

And I’m not talking about stagefright. Stagefright, for those not in the know, is the inability to pee when someone else is in the room, like what happens when you’re in a public washroom.

I’m also not talking about stepping up to a toilet, then waiting several minutes to get in the flow. I don’t think I’ve ever had that problem.

No, I’m talking about the actual act of urination. For some reason, it seems to go on for quite a while.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, ah, but Tobin, you said at the beginning that you’d gone to a movie theatre and that’s where you noticed you pee a lot. You likely ordered a Coke in what they laughing call “regular” size but could be fitted with a diving board and comfortably accommodate six.


Nope. Not the case. Had a very small drink, about the size of a kid’s sippy cup.

sippy cup

But still, when the movie finished and I hit the facilities, something happened that I’ve become increasingly aware of lately.

I went up my urinal of choice, always choosing one with a at least one empty one between me and the next dude. In this case, the row was empty, so I take the end one. That’s just courtesy and allows for comfortable breathing room. I hate those guys that come into a room with three urinals and take the middle one. Not cool, man. That means the next guy through the door either has to stand right beside you or choose the stall and make you wonder whether he suffers from stagefright (see above).


While I’m on the topic, can someone explain to me why a significant percentage of males have to get up there, unzip, whip it out, then, prior to letting fly, they have to lean forward a bit and spit straight down into the urinal first? Why do guys do that? Do women do that?

Anyway, I chose the end one, initiated nicturation and noticed someone else come up and grab a urinal. He stepped up after me, did what he needed to do. Then another guy came in, saw there was only one open urinal, made for the stall. Meanwhile, the first one zipped and left (without washing his hands, I might add…just gross…I know where your hand was last). I’m still peeing. Then the stall guy finishes, flushes and washes his hands and leaves.

I’m still peeing.


At this point, several things go through my head…

  1. Are the other guys thinking that I’m standing there with stagefright?  Cuz I’m not.
  2. Are the other guys thinking it’s a little weird that the dude on the end seems inordinately attached to his urinal? Cuz I’m not.
  3. Is the guy on the end doing something other than peeing in that urinal? Cuz I’m not.
  4. Do they think I’m recreating that Tom Hanks scene from A League of Their Own? Cuz I’m not.

And this event that I outlined above…this isn’t the first time this has happened. It kind of happens every damn time I’m in a public washroom. It probably would at home too if someone else were competing with me.

So, now I start to wonder…

  1. Am I holding it too long? But I know I’m not.
  2. Is the opening or piping extra small, meaning the same volume takes longer to travel the distance? Doesn’t seem to be, from what I can tell.
  3. Is my bladder exceptionally large bladder? Looking it up, it seems the average bladder can hold about 700ml (about the size of a Tim Horton’s extra large coffee) to one full litre of fluid, but the average human usually gets the urge when it’s sitting around 150 – 200 ml full, or about half a regular can of pop. There’s times I wonder if I somehow got an extra stretchy bladder, or it got inadvertently super-sized at birth.

Tim Hortons Cup Sizes

All I know is, I have a lot of time to think about it while I’m standing there at that damn urinal.

And, pardon the pun, it kind of pisses me off.

That video is not me, by the way…


Searching so long

I’ve been searchin’
So long
To find an answer
Now I know my life has meaning

(I’ve Been) Searching So Long – Chicago

I gotta laugh at some of the search terms that ultimately draw people to this blog.  There’s some interesting coincidences, there’s some oddball ones, and then there’s the ones that really get me worrying about who’s out there and what exactly they’re searching for.

One of those interesting coincidences is first up.  There’s be exactly the same number of searches for Tobin Elliott as there has been for throwing up. For anyone that’s counting, the number is 157 searches.  That could be an unplanned commentary on the quality of my blog posts. Either way, you can learn more about me, and maybe throw up here.

There’s a lot of Whitney Houston search terms that bring people to my most popular, and most controversial blog, in which I ask that we don’t canonize the late singer for an early death due to drugs. But the thing that fascinates me is that 106 searches for whitney addict house we have a problem tobin bring people here.

I like that 35 people have found my little blog by searching plox, the sound a turd makes as it hits the water. That’s kinda fun. 29 more have found me by looking for a turd burgler. Hopefully he doesn’t get the evil turd. Same for the dog eating shit. Wanna read more about plox? Or evil turds? Start here.turd

And that’s just one more than those that have landed her while searching for cat throwing up.

Then there’s those that have looked for something to do with a pee dance, which seems somewhat connected to the slightly less popular how do men urinate. I will admit to writing about the Pee Pee Dance, but I’ve never attempted to explain anything about how dudes pee.

I’m going to stick these next three together, because, well, it just seems fitting. Why? Because those searching shit faced may well have been, because why else would you also search bad out of hell. Not bat. Bad. And you know what that is? The last search term…bullshit. But you can read about my encounter with a…well, something that resembled a bat out of hell here.

I’m not sure why you’d want to search women with no eyeball and I’m also not sure why it would bring you here, but maybe it has something to do with the big tit search term. Notice it’s not tits, plural.  And here I thought they usually came in pairs. Apparently not from the one tit girls searches. Silly me.


Though there’s also those looking for titanic tits. Not sure if they’re looking for large breasts on the ship, or breasts that sank due to a collision with an iceberg.

I find it interesting that people land here looking for both cat throwing up and man throwing up but there’s no searches for dogs or women throwing up. I guess they just want the no-eyeball women.

Yet, in a remarkable coincidence, three terms line up nicely to create an almost hidden message: life is…, all work and no play, nude celebrities. There’s a second one as well… work from home is how a door knob works. How about those funny boy and girl conversationsin your pants. Finally the cat that gets flushed in the toilet is likely going nuts. Perhaps because of the other cat flushing toilet.


I’m guessing it’s only idiots who search for idoits. Then again, so is anyone looking for george bush badass. Though the ones looking for bacon strips in underwear and shoulder sniffing worry me a touch. As do the ones looking for a picture of a brain throwing up. I mean, can that even happen? But for a perfect brain, look here.


The person who searched i like when lady gaga smells my underwear deserves a special place with padded walls. Or a special place in hell. I haven’t decided which yet.

Let’s go get shitfaced. Kidding…that’s a search term, not an end goal. Perhaps the end goal should be to not use foul language. Yeah, probably not gonna happen. Not while cock out of underwear and jerking off anime boys somehow gets you here. Could it be when I jerked someone off…my car? Yeah, check it out here.

Ah well, the most heartening search term, and the one that has brought the most hits to my blog–almost 13000, compared to the next highest at 3600–and the name of my second most popular blog, life is beautiful.


It is, isn’t it? I hope you find what you’re searching for.

The keys to my stupidity

In case you haven’t figured it out by now from reading this blog, I can be an idiot.  Yes, I know, hard to believe a guy with a perfect brain can be an idiot, but there you go.

But why am I making this confession now?  Well, I figured I’d bashed the the Wife and the Boy enough earlier this month that I should likely pony up some of my own shortcomings.  So, there’s nothing like just admitting it and getting it out there…

I have a problem with keys.

Not a big one, mind you, but a problem nonetheless.  There’s three big incidents that come to mind.

The keys to my stupidity, part one

The first occurred way back in the 80s.  If I had to guess, I’d plunk it down around 1984.  I know I was rocking a mullet at the time (which is idiocy of a whole different nature, and one we’ll reserve for a later blog…or not).

Anyway, being reasonably young and extremely stupid, myself and three friends went out driving all around the area north of Oshawa and Whitby, seeing what dumb things we could do.  I won’t get into most of them here, but I will draw your attention to one particular slice of the evening.

It was at least 4 a.m. at this point and we were getting punchy.  We were on a gravel road somewhere (and, truth to tell, I couldn’t find this spot again…then or now…if you pointed a gun at me) and we stopped on a slight incline to a railway crossing.  Two of the guys got out for a pee, leaving myself and one other to wander aimlessly.

I happened to wander up to the tracks.  First I stood in the glare of the headlights, then I moseyed off to one side.  The guys were still peeing.  I swear, at that age, an average male can urinate for at least ten solid minutes if pressed.

Anyway, when I was in the dark off to the side, I had a thought (my first clue that this wasn’t the smartest thing to do, but of course I totally ignored that).  Wouldn’t it be funny if…?

Oh what the hell, I thought.  I’ll just do it and get a laugh.

So, I kind of trundled along the path of the train tracks into the path of the headlights, and I made a sound like a train whistle and bell.  It’s not easy to reproduce through words, but it kind of went something like, “WOOWOOOOOOOOH!  …dingdingdingding dingdingdingding DINGDINGDINGDING DINGDINGDINGDING DINGDINGDINGDING dingdingdingding dingdingdingding…”

You know, like the bell gets louder then softer again?  Yeah, well, that was me.  Two of the guys found this uproariously funny and fell about themselves.  The fourth?  Still peeing.  Missed the whole thing.  So, he zipped up and asked me to recreate it.

The problem was, the next time I did it, it sounded more like, “WOOWOOOOOOOOH!  …dingdingdingding dingdingdingding DINGDINGDINGDING DINGDINGD–OOOPH!”  The “oooph” part was when I tripped over a rock or something and went sprawling into the gravel.  This time, all three of the guys found this uproariously funny and fell about themselves.

Eventually, around 5:30 a.m., we got back in the car and continued on our mischievous ways.  It wasn’t until I got back to the Whitby Arby’s, where I worked at the time and had parked my car, that I realized I didn’t have my car keys anymore.  We searched the other car, I dug through my pockets, then one of the guys looked at me and said, “Aw dude!  Bet you lost them when you derailed your train!”

All three of the guys found this uproariously funny and fell about themselves.  I had really begun to hate them.

But there was no denying it.  That’s very likely where I lost my car keys.  And the keys to the house.  And the keys to the Arby’s store.

Try explaining that one to your mother when you’re calling her at 5:45 a.m. to come bring your extra set of car keys.  Try explaining to your boss that you lost the store keys because your freaking train derailed.

The keys to my stupidity, part two

Flash forward more than a decade.  I’m married now, I have a couple of kids.  I’m older and wiser, right?

Yeah, dream on, baby.

So at this stage of the game, say, roughly around 1998 or so, my daughter, the Girl, is in Sparks, a precursor to Girl Guides and one of the events they held, which is still something I hold as a treasured moment, was a Daddy-daughter dance.

Now, to some, this might sound like cheese, but honestly, I loved it.  There’s nothing in the world like swaying around a gymnasium floor, holding your daughter’s hands as she looks up at you like you’re the most important, smartest, and most handsome man in the world.  At that moment, no matter who you are, you are that important, smart handsome man.

<Ahem>  Excuse me, something in my eye.  Dust or something…

Anyway, after the dance was over, the Wife, who was a leader for the group, had to clean up.  I helped, as did a couple of the other fathers, then, as is normal with the Wife, everything was done, everyone was ready to go…and she stood talking to one of the mothers or fellow leaders or whatever.  My point is, she wasn’t making any leaving noises.

I got bored.  Not a good thing to let happen to me.  I looked around.  I was in a large gymnasium.  I had nothing to occupy me except…my keys.

I pulled out my massive sprawl of keys, and I tossed them up a couple of feet.  Caught them.  Tossed them higher.  Caught them.  Higher still.  Caught them.

This went on for many minutes.  Eventually, I was tossing them with the intent to just get them to scrape the ceiling.  Just a little scrape.  It’s actually quite challenging and more than a little fun, let me tell you.

The other thing it does is draw the Wife’s attention.  She got annoyed.  I kept doing it, figuring, the more I annoy her, the sooner she’s going to wrap up her damn conversation and we can get the hell outta Dodge.

Then she says, “Tobin!  Stop it!  You’re going to get the keys caught in the rafters!”

I looked up at these support rafters, evenly spaced about five feet apart a good thirty feet above me.  “Holy crap,” I say.  “How in the hell do you figure I’m gonna do that?  There’s no way that’s g–”

The keys got caught in the damn rafter.

Have you ever seen that scene in the movie Porky’s?  The “Why do they call her Lassie?” scene?  The one where some guy is getting it on with a very young, pre-Sex in the City Kim Cattrall  in an area just off the gym, and there’s a teacher in the gym laughing so hard that he ends up hiding behind one of the mats hung off the wall?

When I hooked my keys over that rafter, one of the other fathers recreated the laughing coach to a T.

Took us a good twenty minutes and a very long pole to get it down.  At least I wasn’t bored anymore.  Kinda upped the ante on the whole “the Wife is annoyed” part though.

The keys to my stupidity, part three

And then, not long after that, it’s winter.  I had bought a second hand snowblower off a guy the summer before, had test fired the thing a couple of times, but never got to really take it out for a test drive.  So when we finally got a big dump of snow, I was so ready.

I got all geared up Nanook of the North style, grabbed the keys, backed the cars out of the driveway, got the snowblower out of the shed, lined it up, and cranked on the pull cord.

Sputter and die.

No biggie, thing’s been sitting for months.  It’d almost be a miracle if it fired up on the first try, wouldn’t it?  Crank again.  Sputter and die.

Okay, I’ll save you the agony.  Twenty minutes later, I’ve stripped the Nanook coat off, the gloves are off, I’m sweating like a pig, and my driveway still has as much snow on it as it did twenty minutes earlier.

By this point, my two neighbours across the road are three-quarters done shoveling theirs.  I could only imagine their secret, insidious snickers of derision.  I pressed on.

Twenty minutes after that, I gave up.  Screw the snowblower!  Shoveling is respectful, manly work!  Snowblowers?  Bah!

So, I got the shovel and cleared my entire driveway.  Probably took me twenty minutes.  Casting an evil glance toward the red mechanical beast, I then looked back on my handiwork with pride.  That driveway was clean!

I walked back down to the first car, opened the door, fished for my keys.

No keys.

Check the ignition.

No keys.

Check the other car’s ignition.  Same deal.  Check my coat pockets, pants pockets, even the ring inside the door.

No keys.

Then I think back to all the full-body swaying I was doing as I cranked on that damned snowblower.  Then I pictured the keys flying from a pocket.

And into the two feet of snow.

That I then shoveled more snow on top of.

My neighbours, having just finished their own driveways and now chatting across the street, stared in disbelief as they watched me come out from my shed with a garden rake and start raking the snow back onto my freshly shovelled driveway, each pull punctuated with some seriously manic swearing.

Eventually, the entire top end of my driveway was filled yet again with pre-shovelled snow.

The keys were nowhere to be found.

So, maybe I lost them at some point when I was shovelling?

Yes, in the end, I raked all of the snow that I’d shovelled off the driveway back on the driveway.  There was a three-foot wide path to either side of the driveway that had been cleared of snow.

Still no keys.

That’s when I gave up, took the Wife’s keys, hopped in the car, drove down to Stan’s Rentals and faced the guy behind the desk as I sheepishly asked to rent a metal detector.

The damn thing about it?  I was the third guy that day that had rented it, and when I got it back to him twenty minutes and ten or so dollars later, he’d had two more calls.

So yeah, I’m an idiot when it comes to keys.

But there’s at least four other guys out there that seem to be just as friggin’ stupid.