"Forty-Two Ounces": a moistly-fictional work by Dave Morris*

"I've really got to use the restroom." Mike was in the back seat, fighting an urge that was fostered by the consumption of multiple beers and a long road trip.

Keith checked his odometer, it was still a few miles to an exit with a restroom. "Hang on, we'll be there in a few minutes."

The ultimate destination for today would be the Huzzah River. The three day itinerary included navigating vessels along the length of the watercourse to retrieve high resolution pictures for their organization's website.

An entire convoy of vehicles was moving west on I-44, and in the front car, Mike's urgency increased. "I really need to stop to use the restroom."

"Almost there, just a couple of more minutes." Keith was in the seat directly in front of Mike, unable to see the look of necessity on his face. The scheduled arrival time was inflexible; their mission was tightly scripted and largely shrouded in secrecy. An unplanned stop would be impossible.

A few more minutes passed, and when Mike spoke again, it wasn't to remind Keith of the urgent need to stop - it was to summon the help of Bill. "Here, take this and dump it out the window."

From the shotgun seat, Bill reached behind him and grabbed the object without thinking. It was a Miller Lite can, but the surface was uncannily warm. "Why are we dumping out perfectly good..." His words trailed off, as he realized what was inside the aluminum container.

Mike wasn't able to wait until the scheduled stop, and had begun gingerly filling up the same cans he had emptied only minutes before.

Bill blindly groped for the button to lower the window, the warm can starting a reaction in his stomach that was quickly reaching an urgent level. As the window opened, his diaphragm began convulsing, his throat straining to contain it's contents. He began emptying the contents of the can out the window, which predictably, the wind began blowing back onto his arm and into the vehicle.

Meantime, Mike had filled another can and passed it to Bill, who continued emptying frantically, while dry-heaving wildly. He dug in the floorboard for a towel to dry his arm, while the other cars in the convoy turned on their windshield wipers to clear the unwelcome moisture.

"Bill, here's another one," Mike blurted, topping off the third vessel of waste. So far, 36 ounces had been expelled sloppily from the car window, onto the console, and onto Bill.

And Mike wasn't finished.

Ninety seconds later, Bill announced the final total. "Forty-two ounces." He smirked, as the convoy rolled ironically to a stop at the rest area, just as he poured the last of the urine onto the roadway.

Mike smiled and farted.

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* Some of this story is true. Okay, most of it. Okay, okay... all of it. But I wasn't involved. I wasn't even in the convoy.