In college we had an exclusive society known as the PBC, short for the P the B Club, short for the Peeing the Bed Club, and, while one would be forgiven if one were to wonder why a group of kids in the flower of youth would take such pride in early-onset nocturnal incontinence, it was not the elastic integrity of our bladders that united us but rather our confident faith in the fact that our occasionally damp bed sheets served as an indication that when we drank we did so with greater purpose and dedication than other, more casual, less committed dabblers. The gentleman pictured above was our de facto club president, since when he wasn’t shitfaced drunk, covered in war paint, and trying to fashion Don Quixote’s coveted Helmet of Mambrino out of a Kitchen Aid mixing bowl, he was pissing himself, often in a waking state, sometimes even while standing up and looking otherwise completely coherent. The only female member of our society once peed literally on her boyfriend while in big spoon formation, but the boyfriend in question was admitted only a few weeks later after taking revenge by relieving himself in her bed as well as vomiting under the covers. They were a special couple.
The man who should have become the most distinguished member of the PBC, though, ineligible only because of an inadmissible level of shame in what he’d accomplished (made apparent by his efforts to cleanse the scene of any incriminating evidence), was the high-functioning chef from the restaurant Brainland and I waited tables at. He peed himself one night while incapacitated and passed out on Brainland’s sofa, and, in an attempt to cover his tracks after hanging his soggy briefs to dry on the life-sized cardboard cut-out of Boba Fett that Brainland and Brainland’s boyfriend kept in their living room, positioned an empty glass on the sofa before tiptoeing out so as to suggest the soiled cushion was symbolic of something more innocent.
These are details I was made privy to in the highest confidence—likely the first Brainland has ever heard of them—and ever since then I’ve wondered what Brainland made of the dank Fruit of the Looms left hanging off of Boba Fett’s blaster rifle.
