Oh piddle

Do you remember that time at the Z104.5 Edge Birthday Bash before Weezer graced the stage for three songs? It was somewhere after drinking four of the $9, 12 ounces of cat urine golden goodness called sponsored domestic beer. This was right before being nailed in the head by a 13 year-old crowd surfer and directly after basking in the 101 degree Oklahoman sun at noon. Somewhere between this time span, I consumed a $6 bottle of Dasani water. And I just had to, you know, go see a man about a horse. Powder my nose. Punish some porcelain. S hake the dew off the lily. But Southern Culture on the Skids was next in the lineup and I can’t waste the time at some portapotty, waiting behind a girl complaining about how her ripped fishnets do not match her mary janes but her new tattoo itches so much and ohmygod can you believe that she is dating doug because doug was so with brittany the other night and god knows what disease she might be carrying*.

Well, those days are no more. Ladies, I bring you the p-mate. You can purchase them here, but the Dutch site is prettier. Plus, I like that they use the word “trousers” for the American word “pants.” Because “pants” in England means “panties,” and can cause some awkward situations when trying to borrow “pants” from a British girl.

This product harkens back to the days before the p-mate. When keggers in rock quarries required pre-planning, such as remembering my Quilted Northern with my Camel Golds. Also learning survival skills such as finding adequate foliage, and judging incline and wind direction. For added security, selecting a potty mate early in the evening to alert you of any incoming disruptions, such as wildlife and stray drunkards, is essential.

My worst outdoor experience was one winter evening during which I consumed many strawberry-flavored daiquiris that induced an uncontrollable girly giggliness. I decided to meander into the darkness for a quick break. While lurking in the shadows was a lone stump, waiting for its opportunity to attack my bum while I was in the perched position. Luckily, it only caught my left cheek and spared my orifices.

So, hurrah to the inventor of the p-mate, the saviour of splashed shoes and bruised bums. The matronly saint of snow tidings in yellow cursive.

*Please note sarcasm in mentioning the above bands. In fact, I’m way cool about my music. Just check my myspace profile where I list all of my favorite bands by genre, era, and geographical origin. This, by the way, takes up my entire profile. I have no life. Enter more sarcasm here and a picture on my profile in which I did not have the p-mate available**. Also, enter gaffaw here because this isn’t my real picture. In fact, it’s actually a man. And I also don’t have a myspace profile. Jeez. Stop taking me so literally.

**Link found via Kristin Tracy.