Sign me up, I'd let some one piss on me once a day for an annual salary of $111,600 a year. I'm a pretty light sleeper so I would wake up quick hop in the shower and carry on with my day.
bros. close ur eyes. imagine this scenario.
It begins one night when you're drifting off to sleep, thinking about the morning and the man pissing in your face that comes with it. "What do they do with my old sheets and pillow and mattress while I'm in the shower?" you think. "After all, it's my property." And so, an idea.
You start small. You buy two more pillows and another set of sheets. And in the morning, after you have been awoken by the man pissing on your face but before you go into the shower, you turn to him and say "Put the old stuff in the corner there. I want to keep it."
After all, it was brand-new. What's a little piss on the sheets? Children piss the bed all the time. There's an entire industry devoted to cleaning piss out of the sheets. You throw the old sheets into the wash, fold them up, and begin to make a stockpile.
A year later, you've got a good inventory and with the $100k you've been paid, you open your first store selling bedsheets, pillows and pillowcases, and mattresses. All just like new, all far cheaper than any other store could ever afford.
Soon you open a second and a third store. Your bed is unrecognizable beneath all the sheet sets and pillows stuffed on top of it. With the launch of your tenth store, demand begins to outstrip the physical constraints of your bed. So you have a special bed be build, a box spring the size of a football field and covered in mattresses. Linens n' Things goes bankrupt. Bed Bath and Beyond crumbles. The $300 a day you get from the man pissing on you is a pittance now. You make more in the time it takes him to unzip his fly.
Then you get a call.
"I understand you have been taking certain liberties with our agreement," the voice at the other end of the line says. "Ones that I have been willing to overlook until now. But starting today, I will only replace what has a reasonable chance of being pissed on. No more warehouses of sheets and pillows being turned over that never even got a whiff of piss. Only what is needed."
Business begins to turn south. You have generous inventories in warehouses scattered worldwide by now, but the pipeline is drying up. Prices begin to rise and the population, weaned on cheap bedsheets and pillows, begins to look elsewhere. Until a night, when you lie on your monstrosity of a bed surrounded by stacks of Egyptian cotton, you have another idea.
That morning, when you wake up to the man and his piss, you don't go to the shower. You don't get out of your bed at all. Instead, you take off running, bouncing across the mattresses, smearing your piss-soaked face on everything you can find. The man, after a moment of shock, dutifully follows, doing his best to aim for your face (and he will aim for your face) as you lead him in a giant circle through the warehouse. And with that, you're back in business.
Years pass. You fall into a routine. Wake up, run through as much of your inventory as you can, and hop into a waiting bus to take a shower while you are driven to the next warehouse. You've mastered the art of power napping, after another call with your mysterious billionaire clarified that you needed to hit REM sleep in order for it to be considered "waking up." The linen industry is yours, after you lobbied to relax the regulations on monopolies. You branched out into other realms, using the profit from your bedsheet empire to bankroll them. Wal-Mart, Target, even K-Mart. They all have fallen.
But your days are no longer your own. They are not even days anymore. They are hours in a bus, heading towards the next warehouse where a man will piss on your face and you will run through as many piles of sheets and pillows as you can. Perhaps that is why, after all of this, your mysterious billionaire has never tried to call off the deal.
Amend it, yes, but never call it off.
Perhaps you have given him exactly what he wanted to know.
and you are disturbed, I'm certain.
Watch S.mouse's Poo On You. Same sort of thing.
Is the pee'r a dude or chick? Do we get to choose? Would it matter to anyone?
Put some respeck on my name playboi.
Dang first red through of this gem. People are silly. Pee is nothing. It's sterile. It's gross because we decided it's gross. I'm in. And I'm definitely the one getting pissed on. Way less work. Only problem I see is that I have a very powerful internal clock and almost always wake up 1_2 min before my alarm goes off so I'd have to deal with the anticipation.
Set for life. Still be able to work or just pursue hobbies. So where do I sign up?
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Welcome back, GF.
interesting thought on this subject: age. how old are all yous guys? i figure a young broke college aged kid would jump on this offer and plan to quit once enough money had been saved up. Imagine you start it when you are 22 or something like that. At the ripe old age of 60 you decide to retire a little early with the extra money from getting peed on every day and you tell him: "Not tomorrow Carl, I am going to retire." And it just stops.
Wake up the next day at 9:00AM no pee, you are able to sleep in, life is wonderful. This happens the next and next day.
Weeks go by and you have a lot of money and are retired but something is missing. Like the kiss from your late wife you miss the pee everyday. It was your comfort. Feels like you lost a good friend in Carl with your limited interactions with him throughout the years.
Depressed you blow all the extra money on hookers to pee on you every morning. Pay for them to stay with you all night and wait until 6:30AM to pee on you. It is never the same though. You miss Carl's pee.