Many of my better stories happened in Japan for the simple reason that I stayed there so long. During the 1960s and early 1970s, I spent a total of eight wonderful years in that splendid country. Like many young servicemen, I spent quite a lot of time in bars when I was not engaged in some pressing military duty. I was a beer-swigger in heaven, thanks to the excellent product that was brewed by the Japanese.
Along with two drinking buddies, I had devised a game we played when going from one bar to another. Rather than availing ourselves of the toilet when leaving a bar, we would waddle out the door with full bladders and play our little game to determine who bought the first round at the next bar. We had elevated the simple act of urination to the status of a sport: we would step into an alley to relieve ourselves and compete to see who could pee the highest up on a wall. Low man would buy the next round.
One of my buddies, a cowboy from Utah, had mastered the art of the "head squeeze." Jack was able to squeeze the head of his penis and fire a stream of urine to unprecedented heights. I have actually witnessed him piss on the roof of a one-story structure while both feet were firmly planted on the ground.
My other buddy, Fritz, was totally demoralized by Jacks abilities. Realizing he didn't stand a chance in the competition, he became distracted by a knothole in a fence enclosing a private dwelling. Fritz decided he would stick his weenie through this knothole, which was conveniently located at crotch height, and pee into someone's yard.
The gods smiled on Fritz that night. Just before his organ of urination entered the knothole, there was a series of maniacal barks and much gnashing and snapping of huge fangs on the other side of the hole. If this huge Akita, German Shepard, or whatever, had just controlled itself for a split-second more, it could have dined on a prime American sausage . (It would not have been the full meal that would have been hanging from a John Holmes or a Long Dong Silver, but it would have been a worthwhile tidbit nonetheless.)
I left the service in the mid-1970s and took up residence in rural Tennessee. I totally gave up all my military qualities and became a long-haired, peace-loving hippie. I experimented with vegetarianism and, for a few years, in keeping with my hippie status, my favorite green leafy vegetable became cannabis.
I believe it was the winter of 1976 or 1977 -- the coldest in Tennessee history. Temperatures plummeted to fifteen below zero, and we had tons of snow during the course of the winter. I was engaged in beer drinking and herb consumption with a few close friends one evening when the pressure on my bladder necessitated a relief run. The old septic tank did not work very well, so all the guys would just pad out on the porch and pee off the edge into the snow -- saving the commode, with limited flushing ability, for the girls.
It was a crisp and beautiful night. I gazed at the newly-fallen snow, which sparkled like diamonds under the light of a full moon. It was such a beautiful sight. I was in the process of giving my weenie its post-urination shake when -- there it was, one of the most beautiful sights I have ever beheld. Ten or twelve feet in front of me, illuminated magnificently by the bright light of the moon: a great horned owl.
It was making a turn and flying off, but its image in that moment was etched indelibly into my cannabis-fogged brain. Wings spread wide, eyes looking right at me, as beautiful as any artistic rendering could have made it. I returned to my company with the feeling I had just had a spiritual experience.
It was the next day before I realized the magnitude of the experience. Oh, no! He was after my wagging penis! This satanic bird had mistaken my shlong for a small forest creature and had been swooping in for the kill when I spied him. "I hope he hadn't mistaken it for a mouse," I thought. I do not have a huge ego (or shlong), but I could only hope that my weapon had been confused with a weasel, or a squirrel at least.