With all due respect, that’s disgusting.
In the snow 
Si
Well, if I stood waist deep in alligator- and python-infested water, I’d probably pee too. Regardless of whether or not I was wearing pants or needed to go.
I peed off the top of the Potala Palace. Cite.
I also took a shit on the ground at Everest Base Camp. Cite.
I too have peed on the Eiffel Tower.
And off Pike’s Peak (Well, more on top of)
And off the golden gate bridge.
And on the Berlin wall.
Some monument in DC, I’m not sure of which. I was too young to remember. Peeing on or off landmarks is a long and proud family tradition.
This one will take some telling. Unfortunately, I can’t claim this one for myself.
About four years ago, I went to Dallas for the bachelor party of a friend of mine. The host, fortunately, had the foresight to rent a van (Ford Econoline-type) so that one sober person could shlep the rest of us around in just one vehicle. So, the night started with the obligatory flesh parade. After leaving that fine establishment, we went looking for a 24-hour restaurant. First place we found was a Taco Villa, which is a Mexican fast food chain down here. The drive-through was open, but the restaurant itself was closed. We all decided that we wanted to go inside someplace instead of eating in the car, so we were about to leave.
Around that time, the groom had to take a leak. So, he did. He strolled over to the drive-through speaker and started peeing on the menu. In mid-stream, the order guy came over the speaker, plus another car drove up. He was drunkenly yelling at both of them while he tried to finish peeing. Another member of the crew, while this was all going on, got out and took a picture of the pissing groom, making sure to get the “high water mark” in the shot.
Grand finale: the photographer had the picture printed on T-shirts, which were given to everyone who had been there. All the groomsmen wore theirs under their tuxedos at the wedding. I still have mine.
When I was a kid, a friend of mine told me how he’d been out with some other guys in the woods. There was a steep bank that had a tree growing on it, and a rope had been tied to one of the branches on said tree. My friend was standing at the top of the bank peeing when one of the others swung on the rope into his airborne stream of wee. The best thing was that the guy wore the same set of clothes the next day because he was scared to tell his mum.
I have peed into the crater lake of an active volcano. You had to avoid the splashback - the water was (apparently) pretty acidic.
Si
1990, in deeply rural Romania, just after the revolution. We were taking in medical and educational equipment for a charity I worked for at the time.
Three of us, all young women in our early twenties, went on that trip with a small camper/truck thingy. We were given contacts to stay at and this one was a street address in a reasonably big city. First of all, the house turned out to be a walled garden with a tiny house in one corner and a vegetable plot and an orchard taking up the rest of the space, amazing in a city but essential as there was nothing in the shops. (One pair of shoes in the shoe shop we went into - not for sale - but that’s another story.)
Word spread that we had arrived, so a man who spoke English (King James - he said that they had been banned from learning English and had to learn Russian at school so he learned English from a 19th century dictionary and the King James Bible in secret, to kick back against the authorities. His English was amazing, but antique. But THAT’S another story!) Unfortunately the guy could only stay a few hours, then we were left alone with the two very elderly people who owned the house.
I got more and more desperate to pee, and finally made myself understood to the old lady, who took a lantern from a hook, lit it, and shuffled off down the garden with me in tow.
She ushered me into a shed which was divided by chest high boards into a toolshed, vegetable storage area, and pit toilet with a board across it. She smiled at me, left the lantern and shuffled out, and I sat down to pee. Ahhhhh…
Then, AAAAAAAAAH! From my left side, this MASSIVE pig put its trotters up on the partition and started snorfing at me!!! I have never moved so fast in all my life!!! It was quite a friendly pig as I found out in my subsequent visits but very, very unnerving.
The next year we went again, and I went to visit the pig, only to find his side of the partition empty. I went back in to the house and mimed my way through “Where’s the pig?” and the old man wordlessly pointed to the salami we were eating…
Next pee horror story in the next thrilling episode. Stay tuned.
OK, the next year, 1991, we went back again. This time I was team leader and my team comprised a couple in their sixties (ex driving instructor so he was great with the truck!) and oddly enough my Dad, who was desperate for an adventure, and who wanted to go on it with me as I was just off to Japan a couple of months later.
This trip was FULL of bizzarities, let alone the toilet incident which was odd enough. First of all we spent a night back at the old pig couple’s place. I had jacked up the other three full of pig stories, so we were were all very disappointed to be eating him. Never mind. Then our trusty translator appeared, panting with eagerness at the idea of getting to speak English again.
On being introduced to my dad, and being told that he was my dad, the translator (elderly, skinny, bald, almost no teeth guy in his late fifties) took a deep breath and exclaimed “Oh sir! I am honoured to meet you! Many hours of sweet intercourse I have had with your daughter!” My dad was VERY dignified and shook his hand gravely, but he howled when he was finally able to get away.
It was decided that the stuff we had brought this time would be better going to a hospital several hours drive away, so he decided to come with us as a guide, and he set up the next night’s stay in a big city.
Unfortunately he could only find one bed each in two houses, so it was decided that I and the other woman would go to one place, and the three men would go to the other. We were shown into this place and introduced to a woman in perhaps her late fifties and a boy of about 11 or so.
As we were eating dinner, my companion tried to ask who the boy was, seeing as he was a bit young to be her son. The woman went off in a torrent of Romanian, and brought out photos… of a horribly smashed up dead body in a coffin! Oh dear, we wished we’d never asked. Apparently the boy’s mother had been killed by a streetcar a few months before, so the grandmother was bringing him up. All this over dinner. Urp.
Then it was bed time. We were shown down the garden to the outhouse, along the side of which was a big cage with the most vicious german shepherd type dog running up and down and hurling itself at the wire. It would have killed us if it had been able to get at us. We were escorted back into the house and the woman went to great pains to make us understand that the dog was let loose all night and that if we wanted to pee, we had to go in a pot and NOT go into the garden under any circumstances. After the demonstration we had just had, we believed her.
So we spent a very hot and uncomfortable night in a single bed, chatting. It was also slightly bizzare as the conversation inevitably got girly and I listened, gobsmacked, as this sixtyfive year old woman tell me that she was disappointed because after you turn sixty your sex drive really drops off, and now they were only doing it five times a week, which is so sad, compared to before… This woman when dressed and in daylight was the most grandmotherly pearls and twinset person you would ever meet!! (But I love that memory - charming!)
Anyway, back to the pee. By morning I was bursting but we had to wait till the woman was up and the dog caged. Finally she came to our room and said we could go out. I RAN down the garden and dived into the outhouse with the dog howling and baying and throwing itself at the wooden side of the toilet in its effort to get me. As I pulled the door too, rather sharply in my hurry to pee and fear of the dog, the little wooden toggle that held the door shut on the outside went “snick!” and fell down. I finshed my pee, and pushed the door tentatively, but it was completely latched.
I had no idea what to do, and was a bit panicky with all this barking and slavering going on by my ear on the other side of just one plank of wood, so I put my shoulder to the door and shoved.
The door splintered (must have been rotten) and the latch held, and I BURST through the door to meet the astounded gaze of the old lady, her son, my companion, the three men and several of the neighbours who had come to see the foreigners. Ooooops.
You know urine deep, when your ankles are wet.
I asked my husband if he could write his name in the snow in Kanji, and he just smirked and said “Yes, but you need a special technique!”
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When I was a little kid, Grandma hollered at me and made me stay in the house for the rest of the afternoon because she had spotted me standing next to my brother and my cousin, who were both taking a whiz in the yard. I hadn’t even noticed they were doing it.
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A friend peed on me because she got scared while we were riding Space Mountain at Disney World.
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Once I saw a lion at a zoo hit a family on the sidewalk with a fire-hose-like stream of piss.
I’ve been outpeestoried by all of you!
I was staying in a hotel with a friend of mine. She was in the shower when I woke up. I had to pee badly and knocked on the bathroom door. I asked if she would be our soon and she said yes.
Five minutes later she is still in there and my bladder was going to burst. There was a plastic ice bucket in the room next to a sink. I ended up using the bucket then pouring it down the sink.
When my friend came out and asked why the plastic bucket was in the garbage I just told her you don’t want to know
A while back, in what the three of us fondly refer to as “The Belushi Years”, while one of the three of us was going through his first divorce, the second one had just watched his longtime girlfriend run off with a sailor, and me being the only relatively sane one - we used to spend considerable time at clubs where they would pursue wimmen, and I would play ultimate wingman.
Once, they were out on the dancefloor - one dancing with a girl, the second one wandering aimlessly, hopelessly drunk, when the bouncer approached me and suggested I keep an eye on my friend. Turns out my pal had just moments before whipped out the little guy and peed right there in the middle of the dance floor.
My favourite pee story is from the first time I met the majority of my husband’s family. We had gone to Buffalo about 6 months after our wedding, as his parents were holding a reception for us there. The day we arrived, there was a big family reunion so I got to meet lots and lots and lots and lots and lots of relatives. As we were getting ready to go, my sister-in-law called to her son to say goodbye to Uncle Sane and Auntie Sane. He was peeing onto a tree, but turned nonchalantly around to wave at us, still peeing the whole time. It was a hysterical introduction to the family.
This story told by my very good friends girlfriend (with him jumping in), a while after the episode itself took place.
Me, my friend and some other buddies were out partying quite a bit one night and for some reason or other we all got pretty sloshed.
Well, my friend, upon finally getting home, very drunk and very tired, felt a sudden urge to drain the bladder and headed into what he thought was the bathroom and started doing what needed to be done.
He realized there might be a problem when the toilet started screaming at him, so he - in a sudden moment of clarity - realized where he’d gone wrong:
The bathroom was to the left, the bedroom to the right (what a difference a turn makes) and the bed (with girlfriend sleeping in it) was not the toilet.
He got the floor that night, the girlfriend got the couch and he got to do some nice cleaning the day after instead of curing his hangover…
I peed all over the front seat of my mother-in-law’s car.
We were on our way back to SF after spending the weekend with the in-laws who were vacationing in Carmel. At the time we were car-free and in the habit of borrowing Mom’s from time to time.
My father-in-law didn’t like me very much, and took no great pains to conceal this fact. (He later came around, thank Og.) So my nerves were up as we were leaving.
We stopped in Gilroy and I bought two cans of beer. Mistake.
Why, you say? Because we got stuck in a ginormous traffic jam south of San Jose. In a part of the highway with almost no shoulder, and big walls on either side of the freeway. Nowhere to go.
But man I had to go. You know what that is like. Eventually your bladder just aches, and throbs, and you can’t stop thinking about it.
I was getting desperate. I looked around and found a empty plastic one-liter bottle. (Why I didn’t try the beer cans, I do not know.) I hoisted myself up in my seat, pulled out Li’l Soul Brother, who was shrunken and wan from holding it for hours, and pressed his head against the (very small) mouth of the bottle, trying to line the two apertures up. I struggled mightily and managed to decant a couple ounces of pee.
I tucked LSB in, but I had to pull him back out in a matter of minutes, because of course I had ‘broken the seal,’ you see. I insouciantly pressed LSB against the bottle again and let go.
Urine sprayed everywhere. I dropped the bottle and grabbed LSB in my fist and squeezed.
OK, there I am, soaked in pee, my joint in my hand, my wife crying with laughter, and what the fuck was I supposed to do?
I let go and a geyser of urine rose up, woo!, and splashed about the front of the car. By this time I am laughing too, of course. And for the rest of the way home, every time she espied a gas station, my lovely wife inquired sweetly if I wished to stop and use the restroom. We still laugh about this 15 years later.
I’ve been to Arkansas once, and exactly once. I was in Memphis, and had a half hour to kill. I took the bridge West to the first exit I could find. I snacked on some jerky, chugged a yoohoo and peed on the finest square foot of Arkansas god saw fit to grace me with. Fuck the Razorbacks.
I’m never going back.
I don’t know if you’re familiar with Couchsurfing. Think of it as a Myspace that exists solely for the purpose of asking complete strangers if you can crash on their couch for a couple of days. My New York connection was very insistent that he be allowed to pee on one of my friends.