My Informative Night

Last night I stood over a toilet bowl, lifting the skirt of my toga, peeing. The only difference between this pee and other pees I’ve conducted in the past is that this one was not a solo job. My good friend Nacho also peed next to me as our crossing streams babbled harmoniously like a Chopin waltz in C# (in ¾ time). Our joint joust of jaundice can also be compared to a light saber dual as we battled to the end of our bladders.

Having finished first, Nacho sheathed his guy and headed for the door. Upon opening the door a huge black dude (who looked like Ruben Studdard) looked at Nacho then looked at me and exclaimed, “What were you two doing in there? Rubbin’ dicks?”

Being a question that has no acceptable answer, Nacho cavalierly replied, “Whateva.” At this point, I turned around to see for myself the look of utter disgust on Ruben Homophobe's face. After several seconds of awkward staring silence, Ruben dismissed the situation by informing us, “That shit ain’t whateva.”

I want to ponder for a minute why that shit, in fact, ain’t “whateva.” This presupposes that there are a set standard of things that can be considered “whateva.” Ruben, being the self-appointed judge of all things whateva, decided that the situation at hand, the “dick rubbing” escapades conducted in that bathroom, were not on that list. In fact, I think it’s safe to speculate that the list also contains instructions on how to make keen observations that follow a sequence of Aristotelian logic. For example, in the cast at hand, Ruben was able to deduce that:

Dude + Dude in bathroom = Dick rubbing = NOT whateva

In any case, knowing is half the battle. Thanks, Ruben!