Georgia didn’t pee on me.

Somewhere 11,000 feet above sea level, Scott is stalking an elk on a mountain in Colorado.

The air is thin.

He sleeps in a tent he carried on his back. A fire and the company of two friends keep him warm at night. He does not take a shower other than maybe rinsing off in a mountain stream. The streams are also his source of drinking water. His restroom is a hole he digs in the ground. And flushing is a pile of leaves thrown on top. The moon is his nightlight.

Somewhere 738 feet above sea level, I got pissed on at a concert in Georgia.

Scott and I have little contact with each other during the ten days he’s in Colorado. He has an emergency texting device. It’s to be used in emergencies.


I can’t imagine what Scott thought when he saw the rage text come in. Did he laugh? Was he horrified? Did he go back and make sure he definitely put leaves down over his own shit in the woods? Maybe I reminded him. I don’t know. Scott won’t be home until next week.

I always have a story for him.

I booked a flight to Atlanta, Georgia to attend a two-day music festival, called Music Midtown. My friend (and cousin-in-law), Emily, joined me. Scott and her husband are cousins. I claimed her as one of my best friends upon meeting her years ago.

Meet Emily. She’ll be your best friend too.


Music Midtown featured Weezer, Collective Soul, Young the Giant, Bastille, and Blink 182. Mumford and Sons took the Sunday night headliner. And Bruno Mars took the Saturday night headliner.

Saturday night.

The moon shined in a crescent that night. Bruno Mars was about to start. The September Georgia night air was thick and warm. It got even warmer with a spray down the back of my thigh. A hot stream, really.

Beer is cold. Whiskey is cold too. Even the moonshine isn’t that warm. It took less than one second for me to realize the only liquid hotter than a Georgia night is a 98.6 degree one.


I turned around.

“Did you just piss on me?”


I twisted to look at the back of my thigh. A stream of liquid ran down to my ankle and landed on my sandal. Emily whipped out her iPhone on 2% battery. She shined her flashlight on the flailing penis inside a pair of unzipped jeans. The man froze. He didn’t even cover himself.


“I did not.”

He stared forward, avoiding our eyes.

My hand clinched my drink, ready to throw my whiskey in his face. I stopped. I didn’t want to lose my whiskey.

“YOU are ABSOLUTELY disgusting, YOU PIECE OF SHIT. Let’s go, Em.”

Emily and I pushed our way through the crowd to another spot in the grass. My whiskey remained intact. We didn’t have napkins. There was no way in hell I was going to wipe my leg with my hand. Pee dried on the back of my leg when the stars disappeared and the fireworks come out. Bruno lifted my anger towards men. Bruno restored men everywhere.

I sang with Bruno Mars – the real Bruno Mars – not the Bruno Mars on the radio or iTunes. Bruno Mars probably used the restroom before he began his concert like a normal person.

And then he shook that penis so hard and we danced. 


I’m not mad at Georgia. I’m mad at a boy with a weak bladder and horrible aim that peed on me. But, no, I’m not mad at Georgia. Georgia didn’t pee on me. Georgia introduced me to cajun boiled peanuts and my first sips of Georgia moonshine.

Georgia also gave me a flushing toilet. Even Scott can’t get that.


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