The Pisscalator Illustrated

While wandering the aisles of my local fly shop in search of a half-price sale on Blue Chatterer – or Condor Quills three-for-a-dollar – I encountered a rack of chest-high fishing waders ornamented with a waterproof zipper in the front. Imagine, I thought, being able to stand up to your waist in fast water, thirty feet (but twenty minutes of wading) from shore, and you can relieve yourself without problems! But how did they design it so that you can unzip without water pouring in?

As I pondered that question, a thought surfaced in my mind, wallowed for a moment (disoriented in the unfamiliar environment) and then fled. But this momentary flash of insight was sufficient to provide a simple solution to that ageless angling dilemma – male incontinence midstream.

My first design for what I dubbed “The Pisscalator” was straightforward – twenty feet of garden hose, attached to Willy (William if you are formal) through an external catheter. The hose then goes up your waders, over your left shoulder and trails behind you. Discrete, flexible, and fool-proof — unless, as I did, you fall in the water, the hose wedges between some rocks, and you are dangling downstream, the water filling your waders, hanging from —

Clearly, my Pisscalator "Mark I" required some minor tweaking. First, the hose needed shortening; I cut it to reach only to my calves. Also, while testing the “Mark I” I noticed that I no longer had the propulsive force of youth; so in Pisscalator "Mark II" I installed a small, battery-driven vacuum pump that tapped into the line and hung from a shoulder strap.

For my first trial of the “Mark II”, I chose the well-known "Shopping Cart Pool" of my local stream. A cooperative Nature called when I was mid-river — and Science answered! Confident that a sufficient amount of liquid had passed through the catheter, I switched the vacuum pump on and…experienced the most unusual sensation. Perhaps it was disconcerting to my fellow anglers to have someone shouting "Yes, Yes, oh Yes!," while fishing. One lad called out to me, "What pattern?"; "Pisscalator!" I screeched back.

I began designing the “Mark III”. I admit that the “Mark II” has certain positive properties, but not in the nature of rises I expect when fishing.

With the “Mark III” I made none of the mistakes of the “Mark I” or “Mark II”. The exhaust hose was shortened so that it went over my back and down to the left thigh, to which it was firmly strapped. Instead of suction, I used positive pressure. I had secured one of those small portable oxygen bottles like the old fellow walking through the mall last week was carrying — I lost him on the second lap — and mounted it on my wader’s suspender strap. The positive flow entered at an angle just above — you know. I had some difficulty connecting the O2 bottle to the flexible tubing; but once I removed the regulator it fit just fine.

Testing took place in the fast water stretch of my local river. There was only one gently-wheezing, elderly gentleman sitting on the bank to witness the great event — the birth of a new invention and freedom for the bladder oppressed. I waded out through a stiff current to the middle of the river and then stood there, patiently waiting for Nature to call. After an hour without so much as a quiet fax or email from Nature, I was ready to head home; hoping for more luck on the morrow. No sooner was I in the middle of the current on some slippery rocks than I felt the urgent call of Nature. Rather than put her on voicemail and go home, I took the test, though balanced rather precariously. Sure that I had a
good flow in the hose, I reached up with the hand holding the staff and turned the flow valve on the O2 to FULL.

In hindsight I should have used the other hand; the staff was the only thing keeping me upright. Falling backwards into deep water, I felt my body lift and suddenly speed headfirst upriver. The O2 was screaming out of the hose strapped to my thigh, impelling me at incredible speed. I made it through the rapids unscathed, and straight on through the first pool; it was the curve at the end that stopped me. Fortunately a patch of soft mud, sharp rocks, and small trees slowed me before I struck the rocky bank headfirst.

© 2007 Reed F. Curry – text
© 2007 Eric Reaves – illustrations