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</o:shapelayout></xml><![endif]--></head><body lang=EN-US link=blue vlink=purple><div class=WordSection1><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><b><span style='font-size:10.0pt;font-family:"Tahoma","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></b></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'>>“…I would rather piss on a spark plug than…”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'>This comment reminded me of a funny story. Do indulge me, for I am in a mood for funny stories.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'>Far too many years ago, in the early 80s, women were coming into the engineering world in significant numbers for the first time. At the end of the young professionals yearlong tour, they were assigned positions, after which there was the traditional wild party in the desert (young single crowd), but this year was different in that in addition to the usual fifteen or so young men, there were four engineering women. So, the traditional venue, a local park with no improvements other than a couple picnic tables, was unsuitable since it had no bathrooms or even an outhouse. This had never been an issue before, since it was all guys out there anyways. The women proposed the venue be moved to a more suitable location, but in the Navy, tradition is sacred, so on went the party in the usual place, which annoyed the young ladies, since they would suffer far more inconvenience should they opt to join the lads in devouring excessive quantities of beer. They plotted revenge.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'>At the party, tradition demanded the new engineers endure a round of Beer Hand Luke. This consisted of the participant holding 32 ounce bottle of beer in each hand, at which time his hands (his, meaning male participant) would be taped over with sturdy duct tape, plenty of it. Now the caps on both bottles would be opened. He was to finish both bottles before the tape came off. Otherwise, well, no one there was going to unzip the trousers of the hapless Beer Hands, and so he might go home smelling rather fragrant. Hey, it’s the Navy, this is tradition, live with it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'>The party went on, out in that desert park with no restrooms. Beer flowed, and a good time was had, but when the tape came off, immediately the newly freed Beer Hands would scamper off into the inky blackness of the desert to allow the beer to go free. But this time, the revenge-minded ladies had come prepared. They were aiming their camera in the approximate direction of the sound and FLASH. Monday comes, and around are being passed a number of photographs of robust urine streams, most of which showed only from about the waist down. The photos made the rounds, as the office ladies tried to match skin tones of the hands and penii to decide which photo went with which lad.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'>The one thing I noticed, which sticks with me to this day, is that even the most robust urine stream immediately dispersed into an arc of individual droplets, which was quite educational. I realized that a urine stream would probably not be electrical conductor. All those stories about hobos urinating upon the third rail of the subway track and having their privates blown off were apparently mythical urban legends.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'>Years went by. A fun local TV show called Mythbusters actually tested the notion with a urinating dummy. They confirmed that indeed, any urine or water stream consists of individual droplets and is not particularly conductive to electricity. Buster the anthropomorphic dummy could safely urinate on the third rail all he wanted.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'>I learned that the tradition is alive to this day, although they have inexplicably changed the name of it to Edward Beer Hands.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class=MsoNormal><span style='font-size:11.0pt;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";color:#1F497D'>spike<o:p></o:p></span></p></div></body></html>