Our company was only 72 hours away from going on deployment when Ski, Slow-Za, and Egger got the idea to go to Mexico for a night. What a wonderful idea. There was one problem though. They’d been drinking since 1000 and it was 2030 when they got the idea.
Before they knew it, they were screaming down I-5 in Slow-Za’s Ford Contour at about 120 mph. It’s not that Slow-Za was a speed demon; he just was too dumb to realize how fast he was going. Of course it wasn’t about 15 minutes since they left the base that Ski had to go to the bathroom. The long day of drinking beer had caught up with him.
“Slow-Za, exit man I gotta take a wicked piss,” Ski politely asked.
Slow-Za responded, “Nooo maaan. Weee’ll beee theeere in a feeew minuuutes.”
Ski was a big boy. He knew what his bladder’s limits where and he didn’t have the time nor the inclination to argue with him. He did what any Marine would do, he took initiative. Ski opened up Slow-Za’s sun roof and popped up in the open freeway where he stood exposed to the ferocious wind from his waist up as his hair and clothes blew through the air. He faced toward the rear of the vehicle as the car continued to speed down the busy interstate. He then unzipped his pants, whipped out his genitals, and proceeded to urinate from the top of the car.
Was Ski a good Marine? Yes he was. Was Ski an expert in wind resistance? No, he was not. I’m sure he thought what any person would in this situation. Maybe if he had his back to the wind, his discharge would go smoothly on its way out.
No sooner than the first stream came out, Ski found himself getting a complete blowback of his own urine. It didn’t hit his pants, it didn’t hit his shirt, it hit him right in the FACE! He couldn’t stop it either. He was so backed up that the pressure had to just stop naturally. People on the busy road were watching this spectacle as Ski was getting sprayed down like he was backstage at an R. Kelly concert.
As Ski was in his top-level predicament, Slow-Za was going through his own at the bottom. Drips of Ski’s yellow-water started to come down through the sun roof and it landed on Slow-Za’s head. He was completely oblivious to it. That drunken fool actually started to question the weather. IT WAS CLEAR OUT!
“Is it raaaining ooout or somethiiing?”
Slow-Za was getting dripped on in Niagara amounts. The funniest part of all this was what Ski told me via phone on what he was thinking, “My piss was dripping on his bald-ass stupid head.”
It wasn’t until Ski got back into the vehicle that Slow-Za realized what was going on. Ski dropped back into the passenger seat and was drenched from his head to his chest with musty liquid. Slow-Za took one look at him, then a sniff, and completely lost it. Ski couldn’t get him to pull over earlier, but he was now rushing off of the freeway as they were only miles away from the border. Slow-Za pulled into a parking lot in Chula Vista, CA.
“Get out you mother-fuh fuh fuh-fucker! Get the fuuuck out of the car!” screamed Slow-Za.
Ski got out of the car and was drunk but amazingly non-confrontational, “No man, let’s just get down to Rosie.”
Egger popped his head out of the car too, “Just get in the car Slow-Za, we gotta beat the border rush”
Slow-Za conceded and got back in the driver’s seat. They made it to Rosarito at about 2230 and headed straight to every Marine’s first stop, Papas & Beer. They walked in the club and Ski—still drenched in his own piss—immediately recognized a familiar face at the bar. It was a pure coincidence, but he saw a girl that he had net at a bar in Oceanside—our base’s neighboring town—the night before. He went and made contact with her and it wasn’t long until they decided to ditch Mexico and head back towards her place in North San Diego County.
That night, Ski got it on; piss stained body and all. He smelled like Howard Hughes, but she didn’t seem to mind. Ski pissed on himself, and not only did he get away with it, he got laid.