This one goes out to my sweet, dear friend Joe Carolan. Dear, generous friend Joe. Joe “steroids are working for me” Carolan. Good ol’ Joey “tiny enough to fit in a hamster’s ass” Carolan.
I went down to visit Joe in February 2008. You all remember the extensive photo collection from that visit. You don’t? Are you an asshole? It’s right here. Anyway, on the way back to his place from the airport we stopped off for some extremely affordable whiskey. We had some drinks, then went out to some club deal. Drank there. Goofed around. Got Taco Bell. Went back to his place. Goofed around some more, watching Aqua Teen Hunger Force well into the night.
So eventually Joe retired to his bedroom with Beth, I retired to the sectional sofa and I believe Pat retired to the floor.
It’s well documented that when this Barnhardt drinks, this Barnhardt has gotta pee. A lot. Like too much. Like so much he had the doctor violate his asshole to check his prostate to make sure things seemed right up there. It all checked out fine and quite frankly the checking was too brief for this guy’s liking.
The layout of Joe’s apartment (for those who may wish to break in, push past 350 pounds of children’s toys, trip over his Fort Erie Friends action figures, wade through several puddles of hair dye and rape his awkwardly tiny frame) is such that the only washroom is the ensuite off the bedroom. He was in there with Beth and I figured it best to assume he was 2 to 3 knuckles deep at all times, so I wasn’t gonna interrupt that passion with my piss. Conveniently I found that the living room also has what could be considered an “ensuite” except most would call it the kitchen and it’s “toilet” most would refer to as a sink.
I must’ve pissed in that sink 10 times if I did it once that night. I can’t remember if there were dishes in it, but it wouldn’t have friggin’ mattered. I would’ve wailed on any of Joe’s Transformers cutlery or A-Team coffee mugs had they been in my way. It was just gonna happen.
So that’s my confession. I feel bad, I do. Maybe that will mean an end to this friendship. Maybe I’ll never be invited down again. But I’m not so sure. I like to think it’ll be fine. I like to think he’s glad I did it. I like to think Joe was hiding himself under the sink the entire time with his lips tightly taped to the sink’s drainpipe. Sounds reasonable.