What made America Great?

“It’s all about how they piss”, said JP. “That’s what’s made America great.”

His two drinking buddies, sitting at the counter in “Donleavy’s”, raised their eyes to heaven.  Here we go again.

“No, I’m telling ya. It’s a fact. It’s all in the pissing. Believe me.”

Mono was the first of the two to rise to the bait, for bait it was. JP would issue forth no more on the initial taster until bidden to do so.

“OK, JP. Since Rasher obviously isn’t going to ask ya, I will. Why did America become great from pissing?”

“Aaah, I’m glad ya asked me that. Have either of ya ever been to the States….Mono?…Rasher?”

They both shook their heads and as they did so they realised they were now entirely in his grasp. Rasher immediately raised his finger to order another round from Donleavy who had just peered his head enquiringly around their side of the u-shaped counter. They might as well at least have a drink in front of them.

“Well let me tell ya what an American jacks look like. Picture your own loo at home. Well the American loo ain’t a whole ton different. OK, there might be more bells and whistles and it’s probably better made and smoother to sit on. Very concerned about their sensitive parts, the Americans and who can blame them. Well anyway, none of that is important. What’s important is the water. That’s the crucial part of the whole thing. Do ya know that the water for New York City comes from the Catskill Mountains miles and miles and miles away. Remind me to tell ya about that some other time. Because that’s not important now either.”

They nodded and started their fresh pints. “No, what’s important is the volume. It’s the volume that has made the difference to the entire American psychology.  It’s the volume that has made them great.”

JP broke off; picked up his pint; exercised his Adam’s apple; winced as the liquid met his ulcer; wiped his smoke stained mustache and proceeded to light up his pipe in sharp breath intakes and huge smoke releases. Mono fidgeted on his stool and Rasher gave JP an elbow in the ribs.

“First it’s pissing, and then it’s water, now its volume. What are ya witterin’ on about man?”

“Do ya not see the connection? When you’re at home having a slash what do ya do?…you too…Rasher….what do ya do?”

“Ay Jaysus, JP!” they said in unison.

“OK, let me tell ya what ya do.” They both looked around to see if anyone was over hearing any of this. Satisfied that the nearest person was out of earshot, they relaxed a little.

“You avoid the water. I bet ya anything you aim at the side of the bowl to avoid the water.Particularly you, Rasher, you have teenage daughters. I bet ya any money ya point Percy at the porcelain rather than the water. And ya probably pride yourself on a good slash if ya avoid the water completely, especially the first bit that emerges that’s hardest to control and the last bit when the pressure begins to tail off and ya have to move the Lad to keep it on the porcelain. Am I right lads? Am I right Rasher?”

They looked at each other like little schoolboys and smiled and nodded.

“See, I knew I was right. And, by the way, that’s one thing that makes us better than women, by the way. They have no choice but to fire it at the water. And we can hear them. And they know we can hear them. Try telling them what you’ve heard. It annoys the shite out of them. Try it lads.”

Rasher laughed and looked at Mono.

“I’m shagged if I’m going to tell me missus how she pisses. She’s twice my size.”

“Yeah, I’ve met your missus”, replied Mono, “and shagged is what ya wouldn’t be for a long time afterwards. After the wounds healed that is!”

With a few guffaws and grunts they exchanged looks knowingly. More slugs of porter – more pints were called for.

“Listen JP, thanks for the advice on how to approach my missus, get myself hospitalised and not have another shag for the rest of the year but I can’t see how the Yanks beat the Russians by me listening at toilet doors. And, by the way, I’m sure you get arrested for that sort of thing – ya bleedin’ pervert.”

“Purely social observation, Rasher, purely social observation. I’m sure I could probably get a grant for it if I tried.”

“I’d say ya could. Only you could.”

“Anyway, thanks for getting me back on track. I’m going around in circles. Talking of circles, ya know the way they say history repeats itself, goes in it’s own circles so to speak.”

They nodded. There was little else to do but nod now that JP had his head of steam.

“Well I’ve had a few premonitions. African priests.”

There was a silence. Rasher and Mono looked at each other, each one’s eyes saying that they weren’t going to ask. But they did. At least Mono did.

“What about them?”

“About who?”

“The shaggin’ African priests!”

“Oh yeah. We’re going to see a lot more of them. They’re going to over-run the gaff. Soon ya’ll be going to Sunday Mass and it’ll be a priest from Kenya or Nigeria or Botswana or Swaziland. Ya’ll go to confession and there’ll be no pink face in the dark. It’ll be all dark save for two brown eyes from Zimbabwe or Malawi. And your two daughters, Rasher, one’ll be married by a priest from the Congo and the other from Sudan. I can almost guarantee it.”

“Right JP”, Rasher interrupted, “so ya stayed awake in Geography all those years ago. But besides knowing your African countries, where does all the other rubbish you’re witterin’ about come from.”

“Rubbish! No way rubbish my friend. Common sense. It’s the cycle that’s what it is.”

“Yeah, and so is a Raleigh or a shaggin’ High Nelly but what’s that got to do with anything.”

“It’s simple. D’ya’member all the Irish missionary priests that went out to darkest Africa to convert the savage heathens?” They nodded. “Well now the cycle has turned. We’re probably the savage heathens now. We’ve got no priests and they’ll have lots. They’ll be exporting priests to us in numbers. Mark my words. Remember where ya heard it first. It’s as good as done. Believe me.”

Rasher frowned unconvinced. Mono laughed. He called for more pints.

“And the Arabs”

“Oh Jaysus, Mary and long-suffering Saint bleedin’ Joseph.. What about the shaggin’ Arabs?”

“The cycle again.”

“Let me guess –we’re going to be overrun by a crowd of Sheiks pedaling around Stephens Green in Dublin on mountain bikes…… with their robes tucked into their socks…… heading down to Buswells…… to massacre the entire cabinet…….. who are out on the piss to celebrate the first black Archbishop of Dublin.”

“Now that’s a possibility Mono, I grant ya, but it wasn’t what was in my mind. It was more the sands of time I was thinking about.”

“Ah, I see. The Arabs were going to supply sand to the new black Archbishop of Dublin ……..to convert the Archbishops Palace into a man-made pleasure beach resort…… offering immediate absolution for any past indiscretions.”

Mono and Rasher shook with laughter. The porter was beginning to fertilize now.

“Ah well, if ya’re just trying to make fun of me……”

Mono tried to stifle a laugh while Rasher stuffed his fist into his gob. There were tears in the corner of their eyes, more at JP’s hurt expression than at anything hilarious about their imaginings.

“We’re not making fun of ya. Go on. The Arabs. The sands.”

“No, I’ll not be piss-pulled.”

“Ah JP, go on. In the name of God, man, keep going.”

“Well only if ya’re going to take me seriously.”

They looked at one another.

“Go on. The sands. Go on in the name of Jaysus.”

“Well OK. It’s simple really. The Arabs were always nomads. They moved about in the desert on their camels travelling from one oasis to another.  Then they got their oil and suddenly they were rich. No more camels – just four wheel drives on four lane highways through the desert. No more oases-hopping when ya could flit between swanky restaurants. But the cycle. The cycle spins around. It’s a race as to whether the oil runs out or something cheaper replaces the oil. Whichever happens it doesn’t matter. As soon as the well stops pumping all the ex-pats will be home quicker than flies onto a shite. It’ll be Desolate City, MiddleEast. Then it’s back to the camels. Mark my words. Remember where ya heard it first. It’s as good as done. Believe me.”

The spontaneity dried up for a few silent minutes as the men went back to their pints and JP sucked contentedly at his pipe, happy again in the knowledge that he had shared the future. Rasher looked up from his shoes.

“What about the American pissers?”

“Wha’?”, the other two grunted in harmony.

“The American pissers. Why are they the best pissers in the world.”

“Yeah, JP, ya never finished”.

“Ah yes, our American friends and why they’ve become the guardians of our planet.” JP settled himself for an explanation. “It’s really very simple. Our bogs only have water down at the end of the loo. It only just comes up above the u-bend. Now in the average Yank’s bowl the water comes right up to near the surface. So much so that if ya sit on the bowl ya have to be careful that your mickey doesn’t hang down and get wet.”

“Bleedin’ boasting again”, Rasher interrupted.

“Shut up will ya and let him talk. Go on”, said Mono , “what’s so important about ya getting your tool wet?”

“Oh yeah. It’s not that at all. It’s when you’re standing up firing the arc. Don’t ya see? There is no porcelain to aim at. You’re all at sea with no land to water bomb. It’s splash or nothing. Bubbles and froth. You’ve no choice.”

Rasher and Mono looked at other. Blankly. Then they looked at JP. Blankly.

“Don’t ya see?”

They clearly didn’t.

“It’s so simple. It’s a confidence thing. I’m going to piss straight down into the darn water and ya can listen to me and I don’t give a damn.”

It was a terrible impersonation of an American accent sounding something like a cross between John Wayne, Robin Williams and Daffy Duck.

“I’m telling ya both. It was loo design that made America great. If ya didn’t have a generation of American men watching the effects that their piss made on the loo water and reveling in the turpitude, then the American confidence and arrogance wouldn’t be what it is today. It’s a bit like liking the smell of your own farts. Except they have it inbuilt because of their toilet training. Psychologists will prove it all in the future. Mark my words. Remember where ya heard it first. It’s as good as done. Believe me.”

Donleavy called an end to the conversation with his standard no homes to go to/ladies and gents now please/the guards are at the door/time please/even ugly bastards need beauty sleep/think of the children/JP-feck off and philosophise elsewhere/think of ye’re wifes/OK don’t think of ye’re wifes but just go routine.

JP went for a final slash. Rasher and Mono skulled the last of their pints.

“Do ya believe all that mullarkey?”

“I do in my hole.”

As they left the pub and headed as usual to the chipper for a one and one JP chirped up again.

“Did I ever tell ye lads the story about how chips, or should I say pomme frites, helped bring down Louis the Sun King of France.”

JP was left by himself as he felt two figures push past him and scurry up the road.

“Jaysus, lads, hold up will ye. Hold on. Hold on. Wait for me. Wait, will ya. Oh, go on then, feck yez. Hold me a place in the queue.”