According to recent news, Montgomery County is contemplating a ban on public urination. Peep the story in the Examiner, which comes with a headline that's obviously a subtle flier to Variety from a writer looking to cast off the leg irons of Anschutz.
But wait. A ban? Oh no. Not another ban. You might be wondering what Christopher Hitchens thinks of it all. Well, not to worry. We went out and we found out. Needless to say, motherfucker be wasted.
There was something distressingly dank and limited in Montgomery County Council Member Howard Denis' ostensibly high-minded assessment of a "Public-Piss Free Montgomery County." Behind the rhetoric about "quality of life crimes" and the sinister influence of "adult males using the public common areas as their personal restrooms," there lies a proposal for a urination paradigm in which one size must fit all. This dreary, prohibitionist policy has already been adopted in many American cities, some of them once famous for their brine soaked streets and manly eliminations sluicing through the city streets in tiny rivulets of freedom. How nice it would be if Montgomery County bucked this trend to uniformity.
Our public streets and parks are not just "common places" and the people who patronize them do not always go there for their health. For some of us, an evening out with friends is not the same if it does not include the breezy passing of water from bladders bursting with defecatory pulchritude. I make no claims for my own prose--COUGH COUGH!! ZZZZZRRRTHHHTHTTT! HACK!! COUGH!! COUGH!!
Where the fuck was I? Oh yes. When I first came to live this area, I used to stand behind Herb White's lengthily and longingly draining the evening's worth of intake on the tarmac below, the stream flowing in great meaty drops which fell rhythmically on the ground like a great splattery Gene Krupa solo. (I thought it couldn't get any better than that.) In some way that I do not have to explain, the whole ethos of my lifestyle, in which I stagger from speaking engagement to speakeasy in a near blind drunk of such Frankensteinian proportion that it would undoubtedly stop a full grown elk dead in its tracks, involves the right to unleash a amber torrent of my own former stomach contents upon the ground as the need arises.
I used to like going behind to Nora's on Florida Avenue. But then people used to stop and glance at me aghast, and I found it wasn't conducive to the unspooling of my urinary tract, and I moved my custom elsewhere. A loss to everyone in the neighborhood, to be sure. There are enough public spaces in Montgomery County to satisfy even the most exacting believer in the vileness of public urination and those places that have sections for both classes of customer have put in special berms to conceal those who have to make in a hurry, as doubtless they should have done.
In a few months, it seems, the prohibitionists will have managed to destroy something that has no value to them and which cannot be measured in revenues: the right to relieve oneself at a moment's notice in a pissoir of one's own devising, in which cocks are loosened and barriers to our individual emanations are broken down, freeing us to commingle with one another in a golden shower of true community. This was the atmosphere -- rich in urine and other fumes -- of the back-alleys and tree-lined glens in which the American revolution matured. Instead, we are to have a mirthless, piss-free Disneyland, with one of those useless forced-air hand dryers for us all to share in contemptible futility. I trust it makes its advocates very happy. It makes my balls hurt. Sweet Christ, I need a fucking drink.