When you gotta go…

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 18/04/2018 (3003 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

I was browsing through my office email Tuesday morning when I opened one from a journalistic organization I am pretty sure I used to belong to until I forgot to pay the membership fees.

This organization wanted to remind me that today, April 18, is National Columnists Day, the day on which you, the appreciative newspaper reader, are supposed to pay tribute to me, the hard-working, noble-minded newspaper columnist.

I personally had never heard of National Columnists Day before, so I looked it up online and was only mildly surprised when I discovered that, yes, it’s an actual thing. Just so you know, Thursday is “National Garlic Day” and Friday is “National Pineapple Upside-Down Cake Day.” So, these things are pretty serious.

“National Columnists Day is observed each year on April 18,” according the website nationaldaycalendar.com. “On this day, we honour all newspaper columnists and their contributions to the truth in black and white.

“Columnists have the ability to inspire a plethora of emotions that often result in action. What many may not realize is that is their intent. If their readers are not moved by their column, they have not done their job.”

Well, thank you very (bad word) much, nationaldaycalendar.com. So, we started out with a lovely day wherein everyone was supposed to show me, a plucky newspaper columnist, a whole lot of unconditional love, but now, it has morphed into a day wherein, if I do not write something so deeply moving that it causes you, the lethargic newspaper reader, to get off your couch and take some manner of inspiring action, then apparently, I am an abysmal failure.

Now, that’s what I call a special day, kids. Instead of complaining, however, I am now going to attempt to write a stirring column that, hopefully, will cause you to put down this newspaper and, depending how inspiring I am, sprint down the hall to the bathroom.

I started thinking about this newsworthy topic over the weekend when I attended a taping of the CBC Radio show The Debaters, which was held as part of the Winnipeg Comedy Festival.

I am a huge fan of The Debaters, wherein comics spar with one another on vital topics of the day, such as whether birds make good pets, because the host, Steve Patterson, is arguably the funniest human being in the country.

So, there I was, enjoying the wacky debates, sitting in the middle of the row in a darkened theatre, when suddenly and without warning, I realized I urgently needed to heed the call of nature, if you catch my subtle drift.

When you are a middle-aged newspaper columnist whose bladder used to be the size of a regulation volleyball, but has shrunk to the size of a golf ball, this happens all the time.

I assume this happens to all older guys of my gender, but maybe it’s just me, because I distinctly recall being in Grade 1, and the (bad word) second I was strapped into my snowsuit for recess was the exact second I would discover that I desperately needed to visit the little boy’s room.

Anyway, what happened was I had to stand up in the middle of the row and extricate myself from the theatre seat, which was approximately the size and width of Paris Hilton or, possibly, the mayor of Munchkin Land, whereas I am more along the size and shape of Hulk Hogan, assuming he had really let himself go.

So, in the dark, on wobbly feet, I had to navigate the aisle, stepping on the feet of every second person (“HEY, I’M TRYING TO WATCH SOME COMEDY HERE!”) en route to the theatre’s facilities, where I encountered a long lineup of other small-bladdered, middle-aged men.

Later, after refreshing myself, I had to navigate back to my seat, also in the dark, and sit down, which is when I discovered how narrow my seat truly was, because I accidentally knocked an icy beverage out of the cup holder, causing it to spill all over the person next to me, who, fortunately, was my beloved spouse, who was not pleased, but was unwilling, in a public place, to dump the remaining ice on top of my head.

But this is not all about me. I also want to share a painful related story about a guy I almost met on Friday night when I was covering the second Winnipeg Whiteout Street Party in celebration of the Winnipeg Jets’ return to the Stanley Cup playoffs.

Thousands and thousands of deliriously happy, white-clad fans — some sporting wedding dresses, some clad as unicorns, others dressed as angels — attended this outdoor hockey soirée, packing Donald Street between Portage and St. Mary avenues.

The thing is, shortly after the puck dropped, I had to beat a hasty retreat to get back to my computer to write a column about how the street party was proof that people in this city are feeling upbeat about themselves and their hockey team.

It took me about 25 minutes to extricate myself from the crush of people outside the arena and as I slowly picked my way out of the crowd, a plaintive voice erupted from the middle of the tightly packed throng in front of one of the giant viewing screens showing the game.

“HELP ME!” the voice in the crowd cried out.

“I REALLY HAVE TO PEE!”

For reasons I think I have already adequately explained, I felt nothing but compassion and sympathy for the poor soul trapped in that white sea of fans squashed together cheek by jowl.

I hope that story “inspires a plethora of emotions” and moves you to some form of action, but if it doesn’t, I don’t really care, because as I have already mentioned, this is my (bad word) special day.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. Seriously.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca