|Sorry about the pixillation. If I had to add a click-through for the|
"mature content" warning, I'm afraid I'd lose my Pakistani audience.
|Going to the pisser is like|
landing an airplane: flaps
down on approach.
Traditional lederhosen don't have zippers, they have buttons. And all the flap really does is add a second layer of buttons to the fly. Wearing my new lederhosen I quickly learned to begin unfastening my flap en route to the Herren's room. I noticed most guys wearing lederhosen did the same.
In fact, any short amount of time waiting in line to piss was spent fumbling with my flap. And you can believe that after five liters of beer, I had to piss. A lot. Nowhere is the stereotypical German passion for efficiency more obviously on display than in the men's restrooms at Oktoberfest. Inside you'll find miles of piss troughs. Any gap between men relieving themselves wider than ten inches is fair territory, as long as you wedge yourself in politely and carefully. (Don't say I didn't warn you about this point.)
And German efficiency isn't all that's on display in there. I've never been much of a urinal gawker, I'm more the take-care-of-business-and-get-out kind of guy. But often in these Oktoberfest restrooms, one doesn't have the option of staring straight forward since many of the piss troughs are efficiently arranged to face each other. It's okay to look, he's checking out your cock too. I noticed absolutely no difference between the straight tents and the gay tents in this regard. This only supports my general Oktoberfest theory that all distinctions between the straight guys and gay guys essentially disappears by the second maß.
|I know what you're thinking: "But what if I'm pee shy?" Don't worry, there's hope...|
Simply drink one of these. Repeat as necessary while symptoms persist.
Another clarification to my original "Fancy Pants" post is necessary. When I said that going to a Munich lederhosen shop – or "Tracht" shop – on the Friday before the opening day of Oktoberfest would be like going to Walmart on Christmas Eve, I was wrong. At least I think I was wrong... Does the Walmart greeter pour you a glass of champagne when you enter the store?
|"Let me measure your inseam for that hat."|
We got to the shop 30 minutes before closing time and as I expected, it was a riot. Taking in the commotion, I was surprised by a short little man who snuck up behind me and pushed a flute of champagne into my hand. He looked like a troll. Not an ugly, under-the-bridge troll, but a cute, look-at-me-on-the-end-of-your-pencil troll.
"That's him," Joe whispered.
Sure enough, when picking out a pair of socks, the cute little troll man insisted on measuring my inseam. Carefully and methodically. I just shrugged and let the cute little troll man do his thing. I've done a lot more for free champagne.
|Thank goodness I didn't go with the yellow shirt.|
I'd look like Timer, hankering for a hunk of cheese.