Almost Pissing My Pants and Faking a Kidney Condition – Just Another Day in My Life

Almost Pissing My Pants and Faking a Kidney Condition – Just Another Day in My Life

So I was on my way to LAX a couple of days ago to catch a flight.

My shuttle driver was a tall and happy-go-lucky Egyptian dude whose name I can’t pronounce so I’ll call Aladdin. Aladdin was taking his sweet time flying our little magic carpet through the suburbs of Los Angeles because “highway too busy.”

Apparently he realized after we had traveled about 2.3 miles within the span of an hour, that this was a dumb idea. He hopped onto the 101 right where it meets the 405 and 5 and of course, we were immediately met with traffic at a dead stop. I silently cursed his name.

The only other passenger in the shuttle, an older Japanese man who spoke broken English, remained quiet as well. I’ll call him Mr. Miyagi. But the minutes were quickly counting down until we would be at risk for missing our flight.

Despite his kind intentioned obliviousness to the all encompassing Japanese black syphillis that is Los Angeles traffic at 8am, Aladdin was a really nice guy so I kept quiet about my concerns and just chatted along with him.

About 45 minutes from the airport, things took a turn. At first I calmly scolded myself for chugging a bunch of water right before getting in the van. About 10 minutes later I was praying to whatever deities exist that I be saved from pissing/puking all over myself.

I kept talking myself down. You can hold it. No big deal. 

This was no ordinary urination. This was a thousand elvish demons stabbing the inside of my bladder and kidneys with rusty boot knives. This was pure hell. The piss needed out. Now.

I continued to try and talk myself down until it seriously felt like my insides were going to explode (literally) all over the seat.
This is where my awkwardness made the situation even more interesting for me.

“Dude, I know this is gonna sound weird, but I need you to stop somewhere, like, RIGHT NOW. I have to pee really bad. Like really bad.”

Now I was worried that, with us already being late due to Aladdin’s poor attempt at a “shortcut”, my forcing a pit stop would upset Mr. Miyagi in the back. So I attempted a proactive apologetic explanation, the origin of which puzzles me to this moment.

“You need to stop right now?” Aladdin asked in his thick Egyptian accent.

“Yes, you see I have a kidney condition. So when I have to go, I have to go.”

“Oh really, wow!”

“Yea,” I answer suddenly wondering why I just made up a fake kidney condition and hoping that would be the end of it.

“Okay my friend, I will stop right away. Are you on… uhh… the dialysis?”

“Uhhh… no, not yet… we’re hoping it doesn’t get to that.”

“Ahhh yes, that is good. Changing diet then or you are taking medication?”

Uhhh…

“Well right now the doctor has me drinking water all the time, which you see, explains why I have to pee so bad.”

“Yes, yes, lot’s of water!” He agreed.

Mr. Miyagi spoke up from the back… “And… beeuhh.”

“Yes!” Aladdin laughed, “beer is good for the kidneys!”

It felt like an angry porcupine was doing combat yoga in my bladder, and it was compromising my cognitive ability to continue fabricating my bum kidney story.

“Yea,” I was wincing, “beer… sounds good… drinking anything sounds great right now.” Sarcasm.

I saw a Mobil station ahead on the right. Sweet redemption was within sight. The piss-angels of salvation played their penis trumpets in mighty glory. Sweet mother of god, I felt my body giving up all hope as I lifted a shaky hand towards the gas station.

“Here we go,” Aladdin calmly commented as he pulled into the station.

I had the door open before the vehicle stops. Despite this, Aladdin continued to try and ask questions about my completely manufactured kidney condition.

“Cranberry juice, this is good as well. It is good that you do not have to take dialys—”

I was standing at the door hopping up and down and wondering why this guy was still attempting to talk to me while he knew I was about to piss my pants. I just gave up and shut the door mid-sentence and ran into the gas station.

I pushed past the clerk who was stocking shelves in the tiny rinkydink service station and practically fell through the bathroom door.

I would like to tell you this urination was a euphoric endeavor akin to making love, a cacophony of feel-good dopamine injectors releasing blissful splendorous chemicals into my brain. But this was the opposite. I don’t know if you’ve ever held in a pee so long that it actually hurts… this was agony.

After a concerted effort I was able to make it happen, and I stumbled out in a daze to the shuttle.

Then, for the next ten minutes, I dodged questions and bullshitted about kidney conditions and dietary habits, and counted down the seconds until I arrived at the airport. The most incredible part about this, looking back, was that despite the million questions he asked about “my condition”, he never once asked what the condition was actually called. I mean I assume I would have just made up a word and added “tosis” to the end of it and he would have been none the wiser, but still, strange he never asked.

I have to hand it to Aladdin, my wonderfully optimistic shuttle driver, for genuinely caring so much about the kidney condition I don’t actually have. And for quickly pulling into a gas station before my pants and underwear ended up in an airport bathroom trash can.

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