A night of drink absent friends or merriment has placed you in a dour mood. You tire of the inane political babbling of the man next to you who continues to avail you of his uninformed opinion on a range of issues despite the fact that you have not engaged him in conversation in any way. Stern disposition notwithstanding, you decide it would be poor form to tell the wastrel to shove his beer bottle down his throat until it breaks, opting instead for a retreat to the bathroom.
You stumble down the hallway to the restroom and in your severe inebriation barely miss opening the door with your head instead of your hand. Your feet scuff along the latex paint-coated floor as you position yourself in front of the urinal closest to the door. The alcohol-soaked neurons in your impaired brain erroneously interpret your grabbing your penis to urinate as a sudden, great shift of balance; you’re forced to hop up and down on your left leg several times before you’re able to regain a semblance of steadiness.
Your right foot comes down not onto the firm concrete floor but onto the squishy texture of rubber. You look down to see a strange, conical object. The bright green surface of its square-laced pattern stares up at you, daring you to identify its purpose, a losing bet you’d be a fool to take but that you’re too proud to turn down.
No, you think silently as the horror of reality creeps up into your whiskey-laden cortexes. It can’t be.
All the tell-tale signs are there, though. The tapered shape with a slight flare at the tip, the pull-ring on the opposite end, the small flecks of brown that dot the corners of the latticed squares.
Butt stuff, you think, we meet again.
You throw up your last six drinks into the urinal. It’ll be fine.