You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The Wizenator.
What’s the Wizenator you ask?
A pocket fisherman for Wizards from Oz?
Nope.
A show tune app for Diana Ross fans?
hardly.
The Wizenator is a device that is one part condom, one part garden hose, one part trash bag.
As I understand it, the Wizenator attaches to your private area.
For men, it fits like a giraffe sized condom.
It’s not that you have to be an extra in Planet of the Apes to wear one. It’s just really really long, like a snake that has been run over by a semi truck. It has to be long enough to dangle from your Hoo Ha down to the ground.
Wearing a 5 foot long condom all day long is weird like combing Donald Trump’s back hair. It’s comfortable like vomiting on the bride’s wedding dress in front of her family.
And if you act NOW! There is a Wizenator for women too!
I’m really at a loss to understand the ergonomics of the female version of this midlevel contraption, but I’m told it is like a funnel that snuggly nestles into your under garments.
That sounds like a felony to me, but I digress.
So what is the story behind the Wizenator you ask?
It all starts with the Notre Dame Tail Gate.
This tailgate was professionally orchestrated. It was a bountiful array of food and drinks. It was music and bag pipes and school spirit.
It was USC fans in red and Notre Dame fans in blue. It was bag pipe players wearing kilts.
Our tailgate was well stocked. It was magnetic, influencing the crowd like the moon pulling on the tide.
Through the course of the day, a myriad of crazy people would saunter by.
I talked to many humans on this afternoon, but none more unusual than the Wizenator man.
“Hey watch this,” the young man in his late 20’s says.
I look at his face and he is smiling broadly. We are standing behind a Suburban. It is early in the day and the crowd is sparse.
“What?” I say.
He motions for me to look down.
He pulls up his pant leg revealing a black condom running down the inside of his jeans. The jet black hose is on the outside of his sock, hanging over the side of his sneakers.
“What the hell is that?” I say half horrified. “It looks like a donkey show in Tia Juana”
He laughs. “It’s a Wizenator.”
“A Wizenator?”
“I can pee without going to the bathroom,” he says.
I look at him and laugh out loud.
“Are you kidding me?”
“It’s awesome,” he replies as if he is showing me the Holy Grail of pee products.
I’ve been around the globe and lived a lot of life.
I’ve seen Jets refuel over the Great Pyramids in Egypt. I have caught a 500 pound blue marlin only to be told it’s a runt. I have eaten glass and had bottles broken on my head.
Half a life lived and I have never seen a Wizenator.
Suddenly, the black condom like snake moves slightly and a flow of liquid exits the end.
It is surreptitious and foul. It is clandestine and disgusting. It is convenient yet disgusting.
I look at his face and he is smiling. I look at the man’s body and he is casual. One hand is in his pocket and the other casually holding a beer.
He is scanning the horizon as if he is Magellan searching for the New World. He guzzles the beer and belches.
I watch this side show attraction and realize I am experiencing something crazy.
I look down.
The Wizenator is channeling a stream of piping hot urine into the parking lot.
“I can drink all I want,” he says proudly, excreting a full bladder into the tail gate. He laughs a proud laugh and pulls the Wizenator up from his waist. It hides in his pant leg like a Moray Eel poking back into a coral reef.
“Nobody ever notices it,” he says trying to sell me on the idea. “I never wait in line for a port-a-john.”
I think about this device and the convenience it affords him. I look at the stained parking lot behind the SUV. I look at the growing line for the port-a-johns and think about what it will be like in 7 hours after a 1,000 people use the same pot.
I look at the man and laugh out loud. I raise my drink.
“To the Wizenator.”
He laughs and moves to the other end of the tailgate.
I look at the small puddle behind the Suburban. Is this so different than using the woods, I wonder to myself. Is this dramatically more disgusting than peeing between cars in the parking lot?
I will see the man several times during the tail gate.
“My wife has one too,” he reveals later.
I cock my head like a German Shepard watching his owners making love by the fire.
“How that work?”
He says it is a funnel that somehow attaches to the female plumbing system. He doesn’t give me a lot of details. Perhaps even the Wizenator has a line that cannot be crossed.
He walks away chugging his beer, refilling his bladder, so he can soon use the Wizenator again.
In the hatch. Out the hatch.
Over the course of the day. I will catch him peeing everywhere. He is like a dog, spraying his scent, eliminating his waste in the parking lot without missing a beat. I watch him pee in a crowd. I watch him pee while eating a sandwich. I watch him pee in the stadium while others unknowingly cheer for their team.
“They just think it’s a spilled soda,” he says with that same devious grin.
Who wears one of these? I think to myself.
Just to apply it is a life choice.
How can this possibly feel good on your most sensitive body part for 10 hours?
How hard is it to use a facility?
These are all the issues my mind rallies around.
In the first moment of observation I know that the Wizenator is not for me.
I’m not condemning it necessarily. I just think it’s uncouth.
What if everyone used a Wizenator?
It would be urine soaked anarchy.
Can you imagine if everyone in Notre Dame stadium who drank a few beers peed right where they stood
Can you imagine half time and nobody leaves their seat.
Everyone collectively stands, 80,000 strong, and with the marching band directing us in unison, we all urinate a fountain of piping hot urine down the row.
How would you like to stand in that?
80,000 people creating a water fall of pee cascading down the stairs like some sort of class four rapids in Idaho.
How would you like it if everyone around you peed all over you Mr. Wizenator?
Over the course of the day the man will tell me that he wears the Wizenator frequently. He says he wears it out in the bars and other locations.
“With your wife?” I ask.
“She’ll pee in a bar. She doesn’t care,” he will tell me.
Wow.
There really is someone for everyone.
After meeting this guy, I like him a lot. He is well spoken and smart. He is college educated and funny. He has a quick wit and a sense of family.
He’s just a country boy to be sure.
And he wears a Wizenator.
go figure. Life is like a box of chocolate.
You never know what you’re gonna get. Caramel? Urine? It’s a crap shoot isn’t it?
Some people chew tobacco and spit. Some people fart and tell others to smell it. some people wear a rubber tube on their Johnson and use my personal space as their toilet.
Nobody said life made sense.
So the next time you look down and get bummed because you think you are standing in Dr. Pepper.
Be glad. It probably is Dr. Pepper.
You could be standing in a puddle of someone else’s quietly discharged urine.
Life’s Crazy™