h a l f b a k e r yNot so much a thought experiment as a single neuron misfire.
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Neville shifted uncomfortably.
On his 9-inch black-and-white portable, the Poms were two for two hundred and twenty-two, and Collingwood was at the crease, looking weary as Lee peppered him. Surely he couldn't hold out much longer.
Neville's bladder, after a case-and-a-bit of Victoria's finest
(...just to stave off the heat), shifted even more uncomfortably in the other direction.
After a moment's hesitation, born of a lifetime of standing at the trough, Nev stroked the hydrophobic fibres of his latest purchase-- his already much-loved Cricket-Bed-- and let fly.
A good plume of golden fluid sprayed from Neville's nether parts, flowed down the imperceptibly sloping face of his Cricket-Bed's mattress, to the central collection channel, and thence to the bucket craftily disguised amongst a pile of old footy socks.
Nev sighed with relief, as the ceiling-fan circled above, drying the tip of his bits. Good old Cricket-Bed, he thought.
At this rate, he could get in at least another four before tea.
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Annotation:
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Either I'm really dumb or missing something here. This is a way to piss the bed and fill a concealed bucket within a pile of old socks with used VB whilst watching cricket? |
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Yup. Not dumb or missing anything. *Especially* not missing a moment of the action. |
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Maybe you should invent the urinal television set? |
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That'd involve "getting up", wouldn't it? |
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I'm not sure that Neville's into that... |
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Ta, [phlish]. Right back atcha. Some of your ideas have made me retch like I've found a friend, also. |
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