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by Michael Franklin

Fred Blunkett’s retirement left him bored for much of the time - not unusual for men saying farewell to a busy life in and around London. His computer sat in the upstairs office in his home and it was something of a comfort - but not perpetually. He spent much time looking for topics of interest to keep life occupied. Gardening did not interest him, and neither did any domestic activities. Lots of old men become talented cooks and are proud of their achievements of this sort as their lives advance, but many just become cabbages.

One day, sitting at his desk and gazing out of the window saturated by boredom, he saw a dog perform untidily in a neighbour’s front garden. Thoughts began to preoccupy him and - unlike for most busy people whose minds jump from casual and unimportant topics to essential current ones - the activity of the dog remained his focus.

How about human beings? They did not deposit their body waste about in such a vulgar way. They knew better, and modern society equipped the world around it with the essential facilities domestically and elsewhere. But a fascination remained with him. He was now seventy. How much had he done? For several days he examined his output with visual dedication before saluting it and bidding it goodbye with pride and respect.

He did some calculations. Average daily weight probably eight ounces, and average length seven inches. That was 180 lbs a year and 5.16 tons in his lifetime. Wow! And length? About 2.78 miles. He felt proud - and relieved that our evolution permitted daily removal rather than having to do it all at once.

What about the fluidy stuff in front. He had no idea but was able to measure by dedicating all his performances to a large jar in his garage. There were often difficulties of course because his life was not static. He had to go down to the corner shop for a paper and odds each morning and other errands had to be performed on his wife Maggie’s instructions. Thus he was sometimes uncomfortable. Also, he had to be careful because he knew that she must not know what he was up to, and neither should the wider world. However, he did get an interesting result -  an average of three pints a day. A lot of beer from the Kings Head down on the corner helped and it amounted to a life production of 8,820 gallons, all through a tiny pinhole. Magnificent!

Wandering round this general topic on his browser produced thousands of results, but they were all cures, warnings, explanations, research reports, and a few jokes, but he could not find any references to production levels. He wanted to explore further. He would have liked to be competitive - challenging other people to performance levels. Why was it not a feature of the Olympics - how far can you squirt?

There was one web site that aroused his curiosity. There was, apparently, a small community in rural Buckinghamshire - what we would call a hamlet - where a genetic imperfection of distant and unknown origin had been inherited  by succeeding generations locally and had resulted in men’s inability to pee straight. There were four farms, eleven farm cottages, and a row of six bungalows that had been built after World War One. Intermarriage across years had not been the only hand-me-down factor. It was also evident that there had been some improper behaviour and some sin. The result was twenty three men who were generally fit and able, but as soon as they unzipped themselves and grabbed the hose, they became unsteady. This inevitably resulted in misdirected spraying with stained floors and toilet walls. Wives forbade any use of their in-house toilets for urination. Thus, hedgerows around the area became the evacuation points. Cows, horses, dogs, and flocks of birds gathered regularly to watch the performances. They were impressed.

One wife had - the site mentioned - been worried about her husband’s ability to be normal as his age advanced. She made what she considered to be a clever gadget- a short padded tube attached to a light belt made of elastic. The hope was that this, mounted on her husband’s squirter, would hold it straight and steady. The result was not as predicted, but it did please both of them - his first erection for seventeen years.

Fred began to loose interest in this general topic - evacuation of our bodily wastes. He also began to seriously doubt his powers of observation. One morning, gazing randomly out of his office window again, he saw a woman walking along the pavement opposite whose bosoms projected from her shoulder blades rather than her chest. Astonished, he reached for his glasses. She, summoning her dog distant on his extended lead, was walking backwards.