Monday, October 14, 2019

ROBBLOG #804- Dancing in The Street 'cause I Gotta Pee

Holy Pissoir Batman!

I cannot believe it!
I have been to Paris many times- not Paris Ontario which is lovely too, minus the Eiffel Tower, I mean Paris, France.
People.
No, no, no.
Check that.
Men, Pee on the streets of Paris. They always have but the intelligent politicians of Paris decided decades ago to place Pissoirs on many Paris Streets.

"A Pissoir is a structure that provides support and screening of urinals in a public space. It is a French Invention common in Europe."
That's what Wikipedia says.

It is there to help prevent French Men from urinating up against building, trees and motor cars.
What is it with men peeing in public?
I expect it's because they can just reach in their pants, pull out a plum, pee and say "What a good boy am I!"
Honestly...
It's a dirty habit.
To my vast international knowledge, I expected that pissoirs could only be found in France- specifically Paris as well as elsewhere in Europe.

Then, a few days ago while walking along a Victoria Street- here on Vancouver Island,  I come upon this structure on the street in Downtown Victoria:


I thought "What a nice green fence!" but why is there a logo of a man on the side. I walked in to investigate and around the corner I saw this:


Obviously not a pot in which to plant peonies but a pot to piss in!
I couldn't believe it. I took a photo.
Imagine, peeing on the street in Victoria, in Canada!
I have never seen this before. Here's what I've seen in other countries:


Here's a Pissoir in Paris, or below that a convenient, manly-looking street urinal in London.
Hmmm, I don't think so. Pizza Hut must love that parked across the street and just where does the "pee" go?

A Pissoir has it's place I guess and with dogs and men peeing willy-nilly from their willies I suppose it's a terrific idea. This Victoria Pissoir was a bright green not unlike the Paris Pissoirs. If you look at the picture, you can see where a gentleman pissing can quite easily look out between the lime-green slats and watch the world go by on a busy street corner all the while pissing to his heart's content. 

There's no roof on this Pissoirs which allows Jesus easy viewing as he watches grown men pee all the way down from Heaven. One walks from the outside of a Pissoirs to the inside via a swirl that resembles a swirl in a cinnamon bun.
That's kinda fun.
I don't know if one can wash one's hands. I didn't check that out. Maybe the silver box on the wall to the right contains wet naps.

The Paris Pissoirs are rather nice and are in keeping with architecture of the City of Lights. The photo that shows the London urinal above is new to me. I have never seen one of these contraptions on a London street. Doesn't it look like it's just sitting there on the sidewalk and maybe the urine just rolls out from underneath the structure into a curb-side gutter.
Wonderful.
In Paris you smell the pee on some streets. In London I don;t believe I have.

Now, as for women, I am sorry gals, there is no Pissoir for you and in this day that is well past the manifesto of Women's Lib. There is nothing that I know of that allows you to sit and pee on a busy city street. If I were you, I'd started making signs and arrange a pee protest as soon as possible.
"Equal Urination for Women!"
Pissoirs for Lady Pee!"
or
"Let Me Pee where I Will!"

Maybe a federal debate in Parliament is not out of the question or a huge, one day march on Parliament Hill in Ottawa.
Give us our Pissoirs!! Give us our Pissoirs!! Give us our Pissoirs!!
I mean this is perhaps as important as pipes for oil.

I dunno. I could be wrong.
I'm no politician just a concerned citizen who has to pee now and then.

Friday, October 11, 2019

ROBBLOG #803- Turkey Day



Thanksgiving My Dears!

I am sure it was just August yesterday...
Now, when we walk our Island neighbourhood there are pumpkins at doorways.
Colourful Mum pots on  front steps.
Some people add stalks of corn and bales of straw.
Nice.
Here on the Island Palm Trees are still green as are laurels and magnolias, arbutus trees and more.
Thanksgiving looks different here and I would hazard to say never, ever white like parts of Alberta and especially Manitoba have found this weekend.
I mean they don't call it Winterpeg for nothing- do they?

Canadian Geese are flapping their wings overhead leading me to believe I am still in Orillia, Ontario for a brief moment. The geese are here all year round as are robins.
Sometimes- when it's a quiet morning you can hear the "swoosh" of Geese wings as they pass overhead "honking" directions to each other as they search for the nearest- and safest,  patch of lawn or shoreline.

Flower gardens are put to bed.
Not all. The Dahlias and anemones are done.
Geraniums are still flowering and plants such as Camellia and Oregon Grape are setting buds for January. Winter blooming rhododendrons and heather are waiting to give us winter bloom.
Autumn and "Winter" on the island is much much different than elsewhere in Canada. It's our Mediterranean climate. Ponds and fountains are still active. Muskoka Chairs, lawn ornaments and garden gnomes used to be stored away in advance of winter days. Here they remain in the garden or on our front patio. Tidying up the yard is a chore I never looked forward to back east and now I can enjoy sitting in morning sunshine in my favourite yellow Muskoka Chair all the year round.


This Thanksgiving the aroma of turkey and ham, pumpkin pie and roasting apples are wafting from the kitchen.
Wafting?
I like that word.
Our fireplaces are blazing during cooler, Island nights. I love a fire. It's the centre piece of a room.

We take walks with our schnauzer Koko- not to see the colour change in the leaves because there's not much colour here except for brown and yellow. However, a long walk on sunny Cowichan Valley day is lovely.

There may be a morning visit- not too early,  to the Duncan Farmer's Market an outdoor, year-round Market for a special Jack-O-Lantern that will be carved with care and placed in a front window or on a veranda railing come Hallowe'en at the end of this month.

Elsewhere across this magnificent country friends, families and neighours gather to wish the best of the season and are "thankful" for whatever small pleasures are found in this world today.

There's thoughts of loved ones who are no longer sharing our table but always sharing and holding a special place in our heart.

Here's to a great Holiday.

A Happy, Joyous Thanksgiving.
Peace.
Love.
Just being together.
Good times.
Smiles and
Hearty Laughter.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

Wednesday, October 2, 2019

ROBBLOG #802- Radio Times


$142.50

That's what I was paid on the 15th and 30th of each month at the first radio station where I was employed. CKMP 1230.
$142.50.
Not much.Cripes!
I know it was back in 1972 but cripes anyway!
I even bought a new car on that salary. A Volkswagen Beetle.
Clementine in colour.
That's orange.
It was actually a Super Beetle.
I was going to buy a regular Beetle for $1999.00 but for a couple of hundred dollars more I could get one of the new Super Beetles with curved dash and two-speed fan.
Wow!
I was told there was one coming across the Atlantic on a ship and it could be mine if I wanted it.
I did.
I saw it the day it was delivered to the dealer in Orillia, Ontario.
It was covered in a thick, pasty, whitish wax to protect the finish from the salt water on the crossing
over from Germany. The dealership- Ruff Motors, took a couple of days to clean it up and get it ready for me.
I loved that Beetle.

Today, I am thinking about that meager pay today as I record "talk breaks" for Swisssh Radio. Swisssh is a station I have operated on the web for 13 years come March 2020. As if one station wasn't enough, I started another station- Starlite, in 2012.

I wish I got $142.50 today for running these online stations but I don't get a dime.
I do it for Love.
In fact it costs me about $250 a year for the servers to enable Starlite and Swisssh to broadcast to the world and then another yearly cheque paid to SOCAN for the rights to play music.
Who doesn't have to pay out money to buy supplies for a hobby? That's how I look at it.
These days it's a hobby.
It's a part of me I am not prepared to get rid of- yet.
That may happen one day and when it does it will happen suddenly and without warning.

A Cart Machine. Cart 403 would be a cart number of a commercial
I never thought that in the early days of my radio career at stations such as CKPM, CFOR, CHAY FM or CHOO that I'd be doing this radio thing from a studio in my home- but I am.
Nobody knew what was ahead with the world wide web or streaming.
Gosh we used basic stuff back then.
A microphone.
Records- those vinyl things in both 45 rpm and 33 rpm speeds.
A cart machine- it looked like an 8 track before 8 tracks were invented, that allowed us to play commercials and jingles. Sometimes we'd record the music onto these carts so as not to wear out the vinyl on the records. It extended the shelf life of the 45.
Our station logs were all figured out by hand and brain in those days by someone who worked in a department called "traffic". They would plot commercial breaks, news and weather reports as well as anything special that happened throughout the broadcast day.
They were the unsung heroes working on the station logs days in advance of broadcast.


It wasn't until the 90's the radio changed.
I had changed.
I left radio in the 80's all together. When I returned it was all computerized.
Yikes!
The  microphone was still there but now all the music, jingles and commercials were safely stored inside a computer. Station logs were generated by computers.
Announcers were replaced by computers- something we call voice-tracking.
I use VTKing to run Swisssh Radio.
It may sound like I am there- in person, however I'm not.
I can broadcast "live" on Swisssh but I don't too often.
I can sit in my studio for an hour or two and record more than 50 talk breaks and then have my computer programme to insert the breaks throughout the day. It works like a charm really and on the air it sounds professional and as if I was right there in the minute behind the microphone.
It may be cheating but it is what it is.
Maybe one day I'll do a live "show" for an hour or two each day. If I commit I need to be sure.
So far, I am not ready to commit to that.

Who knows?
Maybe for $142.50 twice a month, I'd think about it.

Thursday, September 26, 2019

ROBBLOG #801- Change Please




Distance does funny things.

Not laugh out loud funny. Maybe more funny-interesting.
Being three time zones and a few thousand miles away from where one lived one's entire life is, well- life-changing.
It gives one a different perspective on life and living.

I guess I expected things to stay the same back home in Ontario.
Does everyone think that when a major move is undertaken? Perhaps.
I think you get so far away, that you lose sense of what it was like to live in that "other" place where your entire life was formed and lived. Being removed from that previous "living space" is one thing but living somewhere else and coping with the change is completely different.
It has to be.

It does take some getting used to, however.
I know that first-hand.
Since moving to this Island in the Pacific called Vancouver Island it has taken some thought and perseverance.

Oh, it was all so easy packing up Pine Tree House back in Orillia, Ontario.
The excitement of it all.
The move! The BIG Move!
Then, the reality when you hit the Island and live in a 30 foot RV called Priscilla for a month while your home is being finished.
One day you're told there'll be a delay.
Then a couple of weeks later yet another.
A move to an apartment to at least feel like a normal person in a normal house with a normal roof over your head comes next.
Sometimes that upheaval seems so long ago now.

You have to centre on where you life now and where it will be for the foreseeable future.
The point is you work at making your new community home and you believe that people in "old home" work at keeping things the same.
Why?
To wait for your return?
That isn't how the world spins.

There is change back in "old home" it's just that you get so wrapped up in your new home, new places, new people that you forget the world evolves back east.

Change can be as simple as new paint on a neighbourhood door.
New neighbours on the street where you once lived for twenty-five years.
It could be a century building torn down- like my old high school ODCVI that sat a block away from our house. Now, it's just empty space.

Change could be a new building erected on a farmer's field.
New businesses opening where once only rocks and dirt lay and weeds grow.

Change could be a birth or a death.
That's when you realize you are no longer a part of the world that was back home.
A death.
That person who has passed was there all your life and now when you go home, they aren't there to greet you.
Hug you.
Smile at you.
Ask how your new life is unfolding.

It's strange.

At times I feel like I am just on a long vacation and soon all these new people and places will drift away and I'll find myself back in the past, back on the side veranda at Pine Tree House, back to the way things were once upon a time.

I think autumn makes me feel this way, only with a twist these past years. Autumn, when things die off. Streets  become bare of green. Gardens are put to bed and "the social season" begins again to get a body through weeks and weeks of cold, miserable winter.


Living here on the Island this is our third autumn and it is different.
Leaves that change colour are minimal. Most leaves turn brown and fall off from the summer drought. Some trees turn a yellowy-green. Many plants, trees and bushes just stay green.
Green is the colour of autumn here and the colour of what Islanders jokingly refer to as "winter".
Not an Ontario, snow-bound, blustery, freezing rain, bone chilling white winter like Ontario has but a gentle Island time when mother nature replenishes the moisture lost in summer dryness.
If it's an average year, nature brings signs of spring to January and a sign of summer in February when one has to start cutting the grass again.
Last year I remember seeing Islanders cutting grass in December.
We go to the Christmas tree lighting ceremony and fireworks from the rooftop of City Hall wearing sweaters and nylon jackets. No winter boots and scarves except worn by those who are followers of fashion. I even slip on a scarf I bought in London or Paris just to be Holiday fashionable from time to time. It's different and a notable change from Ontario where winter drags on every year.

So, I am still getting used to change.
Change is accommodating me.
Most change here on the Island has been gentle. 
The weather which just might be the biggest change is quite nice.
It plays with your mind when you can sit having coffee in the morning sunshine in January. Yes, I'd have a sweater or a hoody on but still try doing that in Ontario in January.
Oh and in front of me is one of three palm trees on our property.

The Mister and I have adapted to this change.
Oh, we love seeing old friends come here!
We enjoy seeing them fall in love with our island- and they do.
We don't have to convince them. Usually by the third day out of nowhere a visitor will say:
"You know, I could live here."

For us, we are certainly Islanders by now since there is a decal on the back window of our van with the words "Island Life".
The "I" in Life is the Island.

Change.
Funny, eh?

Thursday, September 19, 2019

ROBBLOG #800- How To Tell Your Kids About Justin


How To Tell Your Kids About Justin's Blackface

In light of this horrible, horrible, shocking disclosure that our Prime Minister once- okay three times, wore blackface, I present this story- keeping in mind as the media has been telling us over and over and over again, that this is shocking, horrific, unbelievable, misdirected, liberal,wrong and the big mother of all words- "Racist".
Well besides "Fuck" that is....

Part I

We look in on a modest two story home in a marginally liberal neighbourhood. A mother decides to sit her son down and have "the talk". No, not about penises and vaginas, about The Prime Minister's Blackface for she had read that she should have a talk with her "son". She read that in the right-wing newspaper called "the Sun" which happened to be laying on the floor in the toilet at work...

Mum: Now Howie, Mummy wants to sit you down and have a talk about Justin wearing blackface.

Howie: Okay Mummy.

Mum: Now Dear, it is not right for a man like this country's Prime Minister to colour his face with black paint and pretend to be a Sheikh or Nat King Cole.

Howie: Harry Belafonte.

Mum: What?

Howie: The Prime Minister wore paint on his face to act like Harry Belafonte and he sang The Banana Boat Song? Day-O?


Mum: He did? Oh, I love that song....anyway, he should not put paint on his face to be someone else.

Howie: Okay Mummy but do you mean like Mr. Brown down at the centre or Ronald McDonald.

Mum: Mr. whozit at the whatzit? No! Ronald McDonald is a clown!

Howie: Well, so is Mr. Scheer. I heard you tell Grandad that the other night on the phone.

Mum: You were listening?

Howie: Mum, you have an extremely LOUD voice.

Mum: Oh. Do I? Anyway, Mr. Brown?

Howie: Mr. Brown. He reads to us at the centre and sometimes he has red or green or yellow or black paint on his face.

Mum: ~Agasp~ All over his face? Maybe he wants to be a clown too.

Howie: Uh-huh.

Mum: Well, maybe's he's telling a story about people.

Howie: Oh you mean like Indians, Chinamen, Towelheads, Bog-trotters or Dagos?

Mum: Howie!! Do not use that word Indians. It's a bad, bad word. Or any of those others as well!

Howie: What should I say Mummy?

Mum: Well, Aboriginal or First Nation.

Howie: Should I put warpaint on my face?

Mum: NO! Don't put anything on your face!

Howie: Al Jolson did?

Mum: Al Jolson? How did you know about Al Jolson?

Howie I saw it in a movie on...

Mum: Television. Well that was a different time and a different place. Not Canada.

Howie: Mummy, Are Indians still Indians?

Mum: Well, yes but we can't call them that.

Howie: Are Cowboys still cowboys?

Mum: Yes.

Howie: So, I can call a cowboy a cowboy but not an Indian- Tonto?

Mum: Well, yes. I guess you can call a cowboy a cowboy but no, you can't call an Indian "Tonto" OR "Chief" for that matter.

Howie: Even if they are one? A Chief I mean.

Mum: No! Well, I mean I don't think so.... Oh nevermind, ask your teacher. The point is all that name-calling is wrong. That's what we call "Racist"!

Howie: Oh...~pause~ Is that what Mr. Celebrum is when he calls Gay People names?

Mum: No Dear, he's a homophobe.

Howie: Is it what is Mrs. Carnavole is when she calls the Lesbians rug munchers?

Mum: Whaaat? No Dear that still a homophobe.

Howie: What about when the man at the store makes fun of my friend and calls him Bisexual Berenie?

Mum: Well, that's a Biphobiant.

Howie: What about people from Mexico, are they beaners?

Mum: No! For goodness sake no. They are people just like us. Just people.

Howie: Oh, I thought they were Spics.

Mum: Howie, where did you ever hear that?

Together: On TV!

Howie: I hear faggot and nigger too. That's a Gay man and Black person- right?

Mum: Oh My Goodness!! You can't use any of those words- ever!!

He pauses...

Howie: Mum, will I still be able to paint my face green like The Hulk for Hallowe'en?

Mum: Ummmmm. Leave it with me will ya Howie. Mummy needs a drink.

Howie: Are you a drunk Mum?

Howie: Go outside and play Howie.

Part II

There is no part two. Just common sense....


Sunday, September 15, 2019

ROBBLOG #799- This IS Gonna Get Gritty


Today, here's a "Fractured Fairy Tale" for your gratification or at the very least edification.
Look, just read the damned thing and take from it what you will...

Roger Locks was out taking a walk along a trail in the deep woods. He like to keep active and keep his muscles and heart in shape. Every kilometre or so, Roger would fall to the ground and do twenty push ups. He knew he had a great, firm ass and he intended keeping it that way.

It soon became a very, very long walk. Mr. Locks was enjoying himself so much he actually lost track of the time. Hours had past and by this time he must have completed more than a hundred push ups.

He was becoming a little tired and hungry and thought that he should turn back. As he rounded a bend in the trail he spied a small, woodsy cottage next to a gigantic oak tree.
"How cute!"
Certainly someone could spare a drink and perhaps a slice of bread before he turned back for home.

Roger walked up to the front door and found it cracked open- just a bit.
"Hello!"- he shouted, ""Is anyone 't-uh home?"
No answer.
He tried again.
"Hello? I was wondering if you could spare a glass of water and maybe a slice of bread- with butter?
Still no reply.
He pushed the door open farther.
Looking into the cottage's interior he could see an old wooden table set with cloth and a vase of flowers in the centre.
Roger walked into the room forgetting he might be trespassing.
"Odd..."- he thought.
Along one side of the table were set two steaming bowls of what appeared to be spaghetti, piled high with tomato sauce. An additional bowl was set at one end. There were three chairs- all made of old wood, probably quite antique.

Roger Locks was now standing at the side of the table smelling the wonderful hot pasta and sauce.
He picked up a spoon next to the bowl and sat down in what was the largest of the three chairs and had a taste.
"Umm...how delightful!"
He tried another and then another and yet still another!
Roger was becoming full.
Near the centre of the table was a pitcher of lemonade. He looked around and saw glasses on the sideboard next to the table. He stood up and took one filling it to the brim with cool lemonade.
Mr. Locks plopped down in chair once again and as he did so the chair burst into bits. It literally fell apart.
"For fuck sake! I don't know my own strength!"
He grabbed his huge left bicep with his right hand.
"Nice!"- He smiled, "But did I eat too much?"
He did of course.
He was quite muscular too- of course.
Roger Locks picked his six foot two, athletic frame up from the floor and with his right foot shoved the bits and pieces of the chair under the table- as if no one would notice.

He looked around the room and yawned.
"Who would go out and leave their door unlocked with a wonderful hot lunch on the table?"


Through an open door on the right he saw a bedroom. He walked to the doorway- yawning still, looking inside. It was a perfectly comfy looking bed he thought. I am sure the owner wouldn't mind if I had a quick cat-nap. Roger removed his shoes- it was only polite that he did so, then slipped off his shirt and shorts. He was asleep- fully raw, seconds after his head hit the pillow.

A few minutes passed....

Soon the sound of voice came from the front door.
Roger Locks snoozed on. He heard not a thing.

Into the main room of the cottage where the table and three bowls of spaghetti sat came three bears.
As they came in single file, each one was larger and more hirsute than the one before.
Typical of bears. Being hirsute.

One bear looked at the table and exclaimed_
"What the hell? Someone's been eating my spaghetti!"
A second bear ambled to the table and saw the empty lemonade glass-
"Hell's Bells, someone has been drinking our home-made lemonade!"
"Yah, well, that's not the worst of it boys, look at my chair! It's smashed to smithereens!"
The third big, furry bear sounded angry.
Very angry.
"Why if I could only get my hands on the culprit who did this I'd give him a "Judy Garland" to the face!"
"Judy Garland?" questioned the middle bear?
"Oh, that's what I call my new fist punch when I'm using the bag at the gym- my Judy Garland."
"You are so predictable!"- remarked the last of the Three Bears.

Suddenly the middle bear screamed like a girl and pointed towards the open bedroom door.
"Look!"- He cried clutching his pearls, there's someone lying in your bed Big Daddy Bear, "And he's asleep.

Big Bear motioned to the other two to remain where they were.
"I'll handle this."
He kissed his right fist and called it "Judy".

Big Bear walked into the bedroom and politely "ahem-ed".
Three times.
Upon the third ahem- the loudest of the three, Roger Locks awoke.
He looked up at the huge, hairy bear standing next to the bed.
Throwing the covers aside, he lay there exposed and said in the most charming of voices-
"Want a bit of the old slap and tickle?"

Big Bear paused briefly- keeping Judy Garland at the ready.
He looked down at Roger Locks lying there all provocative and naked.
Then while slamming the bedroom door shut he growled,
"Ya, alright then..."

Monday, September 9, 2019

ROBBLOG #798- Dis and Dat


I can't remember the last time I did a  "Dis and Dat" so here goes...

'DIS and 'DAT

I had been following a couple of political sites and persons on Twitter with some manner of political insight regarding the Federal Election- which hasn't officially begun yet. Over the weekend I got so fed up with the lies and misinformation and crap I was reading I unfollowed all of them. My stress level is much lower today. I am not convinced as to why I should vote in October's election anyway.
Are you?

****

Hearing from friends back in "old home" I understand that some September nights are coolish already- like lows of 6c with a chill in the air. Now being a former Ontarian, I know this will pass and more days are ahead with temps in the mid to upper 20's. Here on the Island our overnights are still in double digit territory. Our slide into autumn is more gradual here without the colourful treescape and that distinctive autumn smell. It's just different here.

****

Speaking of Autumn, stores have Harvest Decor and Hallowe'en stuff on the shelves already.
I am not surprised.
It happens every year. Although I haven't seen Xmas decorations yet I know Christmas Cards are on the shelves for those of you who like to start addressing them early to beat the postal deadlines. Best to get them addressed before October first to ensure delivery in Canada before December 25th. If you have friends in Lower Slobovia, you are already too late to have a card arrive in advance of Christmas Day this year but it's never too early for 2020.


A few days ago we had an hour of thunder in the afternoon. Unusual for the Cowichan on the Island and the first we've heard since leaving Ontario two years ago.
Huh- you say if you're from the Mainland.

****

A couple of first anniversaries to mention.
My Cousin Judy passed a year ago as did our little schnauzer Missy. We miss them and know that someday we'll see them both again.
There's joy and comfort in believing that...

****

Several folks have asked me lately- "So, what's on your schedule for today?"
"Nothing..."- I reply.
"What about tomorrow then?"
"Ummm. Nope. Nothing."
"Later in the week perhaps?"
I am sure they felt there'd be something happening there at least.
"No." I say, trying to muster up some memory of some item from our calendar- even to the point of making something up but I couldn't.
"Nothing pressing that I can think of. I think that's why they call it retirement!"- I happily conclude.
Folks usually stay quiet for a few seconds.

****

Then, I was telling our landscaper friend the other day that I needed the two large plants- I had bought at the garden centre, to be placed in one hole. 
Two per hole. Two holes. That's why I bought four plants.
The plants are Miscanthus Gigantica. Beautiful 12-14 foot tall grasses.
Our landscaper- who I'll call Cameron, suggested just one plant per hole because as he said- 
"In a few years they'll fill in and look quite full."
I said- "Look Cam, I don’t have 20 or 30 years to wait for something to grow and fill in.
I need big now."
He just looked at me perhaps thinking a move was in the near future.
"You know," I continued, "In twenty years I’ll be 88. How old will you be?"
He looked down into the hole he had dug for the Miscanthus and said- "Your age."
I smiled- "So, that kind of puts that in perspective- doesn't it?" 
Time flies when you're talking to a youngster!

****

Finally...

I saw a video on Twitter.
A fellah in the Middle East- Saudi Arabia perhaps, is washing his face in camel urine.
Then, he begins to drink handfuls of the warm, yellowish liquid from several different camels smiling all the way as he demonstrates the proper technique to slurp piss. I would imagine camel pee tastes a bit like the soft drink- Dr. Pepper. This is supposed to bring him infinite blessings.
I mean, I wash my face with the same stuff that Jennifer Aniston uses but cripes- I don't drink it!

I swear I saw one camel nudge another camel and laugh...just a "wee" bit.