The Pissing Contest

The Pissing Contest
By Terry H. Floyd

I’ve heard a lot of people in business use the term “pissing contest”. Now, I know this is a topic that will dismay and disappoint some of you, but its part of the business vernacular, so I am going to “go there”. It usually seems to mean a situation to avoid, as in “Let’s not get into a pissing contest.” It must be one of those things that only men talk about because I don’t think I’ve heard any women use this phrase when talking about each other. Sometimes it describes an event that leads to nowhere: “Those two guys are just having a pissing contest.” This is the story of the first pissing contest I ever saw and how it gave me an attitude about the vernacular being different for different people, not only because of what part of the country they come from, but because of what experiences they’ve had.

First I’ll describe what some people might visualize when they hear the term pissing contest. A primary definition of this “contest” probably involves a picture of which of the men can urinate the farthest. It would be a contest of distance or perhaps height. The measurement of success would probably be recorded in feet rather than yards or meters. You can see two gentlemen standing beside each other, aiming at the horizon, and squirting with all of their might. Perhaps there would be some grunting as the strain of effort was manifesting itself. Sorry about that graphic depiction, but I warned you I was going to “go there.”

Another person might envision two men facing each other and soaking each other down from head to foot. It’s a stretch, but folks who have never heard the term pissing contest might have difficulty understanding what it could possibly mean and since it is apparently to be avoided, this would make sure that element is involved in the definition.

Another definition of a pissing contest might measure the sheer volume of fluid produced. This case would use quarts, liters, or even gallons as a unit of measure. Like with these little fellows from Japan who always seem to win the hot dog eating contests, it would be expected that a large guy would win, but it would not surprise me if a small man actually won such a contest. Practice and training might come into play and there’s always the consideration of the preparation during the days and hours leading up to the event.

But the kind of pissing contest I saw between my Dad and his best friend, Dave, occurred when I was about five years old and falls into the “none of the above” category. In the old days, say the 40’s and 50’s, farmers and cattlemen had plenty of spare time on their hands at certain seasons of the year. It would be too wet to plow or too hot to work the cows or too cold to do much of anything outdoors if you could manage to avoid it, so they’d drink beer and play dominoes all day. And they’d just drive around on dirt roads at about 30 MPH and talk about the weather for hours, seldom seeing another car. My little brother and I heard some really interesting stories while seated in a 1950 Ford pickup between these two guys.

One day they decided to have a pissing contest. I didn’t know what to expect, but things were a lot different out in the country and we did things the kids in town were seldom, if ever, allowed to do or to see, or to even imagine probably. The first thing Daddy and his roll-it-yourself Bull Durham smoking friend had to do was go buy a case of beer. Well, it was a dry county and so were all the other counties around it so it was not as easy to buy beer as it is now. But they had an early start; it must have been about 9am when we drove out the back pasture gate in that white ’50 Ford with the picture of a bull’s head and the words “Floyd Hereford Ranch” on the driver’s door.

They drove by a little house on a dirt road about 10 miles from our place and honked the horn. Then they turned the pickup around and drove back by and honked again. Then we went to a shade tree by a creek and sat there for a few minutes. They pulled out four one-dollar bills and laid them up on the dash. Soon, old Dave grabbed the money, jumped out of the pickup and walked off up the creek. He was gone about 10 minutes and came back with a case of cold beer in unlabeled bottles. I learned a lot that day.

Then they just drove around dirt roads and drank the beer. They were kidding with each other about lots of stuff, but the topic often involved discussions of going swimming when they were kids or the time it rained so much the creeks ran for six months (this was dry-land Texas) or about a well they had dug and how much it would hold. Other things were discussed, but water seemed to be a theme.

Often on other days, when riding around with these two, we’d stop in the middle of the bridge at Blanket Creek to “take a leak” into the usually dry creek bed. I didn’t notice that I was the only one tinkling when they stopped once after about 2 hours, but I began to catch on to what their kind of pissing contest was all about after it happened the second time.

They drank that whole case of beer without taking a whiz. Some pain was involved after the 4th hour, but these two guys were tough. Tougher than I’ll ever be. It must have been about 5 in the afternoon when my Dad lost that game. I’ve had a lot different attitude about pissing contests than others ever since that day. A pissing contest of this kind is definitely to be avoided. It has nothing to do with distance or quantity. It has to do with pain. Severe pain. Now I hope you’ll think twice before getting into a pissing contest, either literally or figuratively.

There is never a “winner” at the end, just two people in pain, hurting themselves.

Blogito ergo sum.