Chubby Cherub
Dear Man Who Pees in Parking Lots:
I saw your flagrant public urination. It's true. Misfortune conspired to unexpectedly bring us together for the show. Performer and audience.
I was sitting in the white Jeep, listening to the conclusion of a radio program before my shopping. You returned to your truck, tossed the singular sack of groceries in the open window, looked around furtively, and unzipped.
With your broad frame wedged between the parked vehicles, you slid your hand down below your paunch and liberated yourself from your open fly. Then, you released a steady stream like a chubby cherub in the center of a garden fountain, perpetually caught in his mischievous deed.
I gathered your satisfaction faded to embarrassment when you spied my silhouette nearby, since you moved your other hand to shield your private area from view, as if the stream mysteriously sprang from underneath your open palm -- a tiny act of modesty in a grand show of obscenity.
I was transfixed by the showmanship with which you bounced your entire heft to shake the dew off the proverbial lilly. Then, you stuffed yourself back in your jeans and casually climbed into your truck like you'd absentmindedly completed a task no less expected than filling your gas tank. But, instead, you'd emptied your bladder.
And, really, wasn't there a men's room in the store from which you had just emerged? Do the public a favor and belly up to the urinal next time, big boy. Accidental audiences ask this much of you.
Respectfully,
Damaged Shopper
I saw your flagrant public urination. It's true. Misfortune conspired to unexpectedly bring us together for the show. Performer and audience.
I was sitting in the white Jeep, listening to the conclusion of a radio program before my shopping. You returned to your truck, tossed the singular sack of groceries in the open window, looked around furtively, and unzipped.
With your broad frame wedged between the parked vehicles, you slid your hand down below your paunch and liberated yourself from your open fly. Then, you released a steady stream like a chubby cherub in the center of a garden fountain, perpetually caught in his mischievous deed.
I gathered your satisfaction faded to embarrassment when you spied my silhouette nearby, since you moved your other hand to shield your private area from view, as if the stream mysteriously sprang from underneath your open palm -- a tiny act of modesty in a grand show of obscenity.
I was transfixed by the showmanship with which you bounced your entire heft to shake the dew off the proverbial lilly. Then, you stuffed yourself back in your jeans and casually climbed into your truck like you'd absentmindedly completed a task no less expected than filling your gas tank. But, instead, you'd emptied your bladder.
And, really, wasn't there a men's room in the store from which you had just emerged? Do the public a favor and belly up to the urinal next time, big boy. Accidental audiences ask this much of you.
Respectfully,
Damaged Shopper