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According to the Urban Dictionary, ‘Pissed Off’ can be defined as: When your eyes bulge out and steam comes out from your ear.

I’d like to make a case for a new definition.

I was in my flat at around midday last weekend, minding my own business, when I suddenly heard outside the unmistakable drunken warblings of a foreigner on the telephone.

‘Yeah mate, we’re on the pub crawl.  Come on down!’ 

I glanced outside to observe the creature.  Suited in what appeared to be a red and blue striped babygrow, he was swaggering up and down the pavement like “Demented Superman”.  Every now and again he would slop, what I can only hope was beer over his plastic torso and let it dribble slowly downwards like puke.   He would then attempt to pat it dry with his bib – or rather ‘cape’ – with the same deftness of touch that a 3 year old would tackle finger painting. 

Once he had dished out some inexplicable directions to his current location, he signed off communication with an almighty burp.  The trumpet of alcoholic air was deafening; it whooshed down the street like tumbleweed, bouncing off car bonnets and rattling windows, the acid within, melting curtains as it passed.

An hour or two later, I happened to peer outside once again, only to lay eyes on yet more drunken people.  These two were girls.  One was squatting in a doorway across the road, whilst the other loyally ‘stood guard’.  I assumed this was in an attempt to protect the squatter’s modesty, but it was rather counterintuitive.  Not only did it draw even more attention to the squatter herself, but say you were lucky enough not to see her, you couldn’t fail to miss her ‘guardian’ – Banana Girl, standing there, legs astride, inconspicuous in every way save her suit and, ah yes, that steady stream of yellow liquid flowing from between her feet.

I felt my blood simmer.  I have to live on this road, I thought to myself.  If I had any sense at all I’d holler out the window: ‘I CAN SEE YOU!’ 

But I didn’t.  Because that would be stupid.  Not only would I look like a 3 year old too, one playing a Peeping Tom’s version of Hide and Seek, but I would also become the very worst type of curtain twitching busybody – the one that scuppers Poirot’s plans, calling up the policeman who is also the murderer. 

And after all, we all know the agony of having to hold on when we just can’t – walk – another – step…

10 minutes later, I wasn’t so forgiving. 

I had exited my house and was preparing for an icy dash across town, when suddenly I saw ahead 3 or 4 male drunken ‘superheroes’, standing in a line, peeing up against the wall.

A river – yes, RIVER – of piss, the width of the Thames, was floating towards me with a current strong enough to dislodge not just decade-old gum but some stray cans of cider and probably also myself.

‘What exactly do you think you are doing?’ I barked at a disheveled Batman.

‘What you say?’ Batman slurred.

‘You are urinating on – my – road!’

‘Yeah right, sorry about that!’

‘No – stop! STOP-right-this-minute!’

At that point another drunken hero – Pineapple Girl – appeared as if from nowhere, whipped down her trousers and started merrily free-flowing beside me.  It was one of those surreal moments in life when you can’t quite believe what is happening and so you take yourself off to your happy place, stand there like a lamppost and just ‘la-la-la’ loudly in your head.

This was of course, til I saw my brand new shoes getting splattered with urea.  You can pee on my road, you can pee on my doorstep, but come near my boots and I thunder: 

‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?’

‘Chill out,’ giggled Pineapple Head as she continued to empty her bladder with the gushing velocity ofNiagara.

‘How can you even CONCENTRATE WITH ME YELLING AT YOU?’

‘It’s just for one day of the year!’

‘No, NO!  LISTEN TO ME!  How the hell would you feel if I turned up on YOUR doorstep and just started PEEING all over it?’

‘Well frankly, I wouldn’t mind – you’re welcome to,’ sneered one of the caricatures, who I shall name and shame here as Spiderpiss

‘Yeah, you can come round to my place anytime,’ chuckled his sidekick, Hulkmerpiss.

‘There’s no need to be such a bitch about it,’ stammered third wheel, Incredipiss.

That was it.  I reeled off a list of childish, lowbrow insults in quick succession.  Then, terrified of what my erratic anger would lead me to do next (or lead me to think I could do next – crash all their heads together like a real super hero), I tore off down the street, muttering to myself.  

A woman possessed, I spent the next half hour furiously composing all sorts of winning comebacks I wish I had triumphantly heralded at the time.  My lasting regret though is not taking a photograph.

Time has passed and still I am fuming.  There’s nothing I can do about it except side-step over the stained slabs of pavement and hope that in time I forget about it.  That and appeal to the Urban Dictionary for a new definition of ‘pissed off’ to appear online, preferably reading thus:

Pissed Off: The feeling one gets when one is pissed ON by a stranger, laughed at, immobilized, then sentenced to a lifetime of pavement hopping, like someone in need of a piss themselves.

by Beenie Langley

Editor’s note: The author has since discovered the cause of her plight was “New Zealand day”…

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