Ten dollars buys you a bottomless glass for two hours at Joyblue on Friday night, 8pm to 10pm. A few likeminded saucehounds and I wandered over to indulge ourselves.

What kind of name is Joyblue? Pretentious. Prissy. Dull. Edgeless. This was all fine with me. I wanted affordable alcohol and the promise of an early night. If I had my way we'd have stayed inside and sung bad karaoke again. Sadly, that notion was vetoed. Oh well. If I could last through a few hours of public wallet rape, my compatriots would eventually tire and then we'd go home and play darts.

I entered. Pedestrian house music limped lazily from stacks of blown speakers. The uninspired DJ bobbed his head without enthusiam, a fishing lure cut adrift from its line. Three television sets were tuned to a sports news channel. The scrolling scoreboard ran across the screen's bottom like a poor man's stock ticker. Soft blue light backlit liquor bottles and spiky haircuts. Young people sat subdued, waiting for later and louder hours.

I loitered. I leaned. I imparted pearls of wit to my unimpressed brethren. We played conversation tennis, banter racket, bearable with gin. Finally my bladder alarm rang and I went to urinate with glorious abandon. The bathroom was a clautrophobic little closet with two urinals, a sink, no dividers, and no toilet. Strange. Relieved, I exited. I gave my amigos the sitrep. Noah appeared concerned.

"Hey Noah, you okay?"

"Dude, why would they have two pissers and no can? What if people gotta shit?"

"You holding one in or just feeling righteous in general?"

"A little of both. There's a lot of bullshit things pissing me off today. Needing diapers at a hipster bar is not one I expected to deal with."

"Are you gonna do it?"

"Do what?"

"Shit in the sink. Or even the urinal. Hold it until the last possible moment, build up some pressure, then WHOOSH! KERSPLAT! Use that serious torque to blast that white porcelain brown. I'll grab you some cocktail napkins to bring in there. You'll need 'em to mop the sop off your aching bung."

"You're fucking sick, Steve."

As the ten o'clock hour approached I grew restless. I watched the television, following the scores of the Cubs and White Sox games. The fuzzy picture on the screen next to a speaker stack jumped with the bass thumps. Lines of static squiggled with each 4/4 drop. Time to migrate. I corralled my friends. All of them were located easily except Noah. Had he left to go find someplace with respectable facilities?

We stood outside. Partygoers passed through the threshhold wielding Red Bulls and Marlboro Lights and golf visors. Still no Noah. He did not respond to multiple phone calls.

We were about to abandon hope when Noah game scampering out, breathing heavily, glancing behind him.

"Let's go. Now. Come on guys! Stop fucking around and let's fuck off! Time to jet!

"What's your rush?"

"Remember that Stilton I ate for lunch?"

"Stilton?"

"Yeah, at Goose Island. The holy mother of all stinkburgers."

"You did it, didn't you?"

"Yep. There was no lock so I had to bar the door with my leg while I percolated some thick mudbubbles from my colon. I filled the sink halfway."

"....."

"Man, that was the biggest rush I ever got from pooing. I gotta try this in more places. Man, was I sweating! You shoulda seen me. I was breathing hard and pushing too. I felt like a pregnant chick giving labor. Sort of. Except from my ass. I almost puked, too. It smelled so fucking bad, you have no idea dude."

"Noah, you're a hero among men. I'd shake your hand, or high-five you, but frankly, I don't want to touch you. I'll buy you a round next time in honor of your glorious defecation. I want to be just like you when I grow up."

1:45 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm