UTI Scheduled for Next Saturday

From our new issue, Nonsense Goes Soft!

By Anna Galperin

Nineteen year-old Bailey Latter has been involved in a long distance relationship since moving away from home in late August. With a long weekend quickly approaching, there was an air of anticipation for the reunion of Bailey and her boyfriend, an air which we here at Nonsense couldn’t help but sniff to the fullest extent possible. We spoke with the various characters in Bailey’s life who will be most affected by this star crossed romance and the inevitable urinary tract infection caused by its rekindling.

A roommate of Bailey’s, the only one, seemed more annoyed at the long weekend itself than at Bailey and her beau.

“Bailey’s got great intentions,” she said. “She never complains when I have strangers coming by most nights, but I still hate that she’s going to have dibs on the room for all three days. This means I’m going to have to deal with other people’s creaky beds instead of my own. It’s like when you're sort of seeing a guy who lives in Chinatown, but then one night you go back to his best friend’s flat in Koreatown, and it’s kind of jarring? I don’t even mind that it’ll smell like semen and other sex gunk by Sunday night -- that’s probably what the room smells like now, anyways. But I like my vagina and its scents… I’m unfamiliar with Bailey’s. I’ve only looked at it. Ya know?” When asked how she felt about sharing the cubicle cell hardly fit for one, let alone three fuck-craven first-years, for four nights, Bailey’s roommate replied that she had done worse herself.

“Big whoop!” she declared somewhat eagerly. “I directed a gangbang in here once while Bailey was at soccer practice.” Despite repeated requests to explain her use of the word ‘directed,’ and to use literally any other word besides ‘gangbang,’ our discussion of the topic came, at her behest, to an impasse.

“I hear he’s well-hung,” she started up again, before trailing off momentarily. “Maybe I’ll get a chance to see those ‘nads, if only for the sake of Karmic justice. Bailey may be destroyed come Wednesday, so I called the clinic ahead of time to see if they have any wheelchairs or crutches available. I’m not just a roommate -- I’m a best friend. And my mom is a nurse.” Several minutes of one-sided dialogue passed, all of which I am unable to publish, as she somehow grew both cruder and more sentimental. I shut the tape off just as the odor of vaginal fluids begins to register.

I then called Bailey’s parents in Concord, New Hampshire to hear their thoughts on their daughter continuing her high-school relationship during her first year in college. “We’re happy for her,” said Mrs. Latter, “but we do hope she is focusing on her academics.” While her mother voiced concerns in the long-term, her father seemed a bit more crass. “They met senior year for Christ’s sake. He goes to some state school for out of state tuition. Not sure what for. Weird kid, but infinitely hung. I guess he’s cute, but they only started dating just before prom. Is it a requirement to be cute to be captain of the sports teams or what? He’s definitely co-cap of something… Lacrosse maybe? Either way, Bailey needed a date, and I guess all other options were exhausted; so the courting process of frozen yogurt and promposals and social media branding of their relationship began. And, you know, suddenly she’s asking to stay the night and... I can’t say no to my baby girl, I mean, she’s eighteen so it’s either I say yes or she joins Antifa. Or the Green Party. At this point I’m sure they’re smart enough to use condoms, but what I especially hope they do is use lube - I sent her a bottle yesterday after she posted a man-crush Monday of him in gym shorts. Yeesh. I just haven’t the foggiest idea of how her lithe body is handling that monster. And I mean it’s a monster. But, if anyone is going to ride that former Homecoming king until their bladder protrudes, hanging swollen like a wet nerf football, I'm glad it can be my little girl. Hold on, you have to see this picture of him from wrestling camp --” Unfortunately, I had to cut Mr. Latter off there. I then asked if he knew anything else about Bailey’s boyfriend besides the guy’s name, address, and girth, but Mr. Latter replied that he did not. Once again, my investigation into Bailey’s boyfriend had come to a screeching, moaning halt. And by screeching and moaning, I mean her dad kept doing that.

My next visit was to the campus student health center in an attempt to gain any insight on Bailey’s general status up until this point. They were hesitant to let me speak to the only Doctor on staff, most likely because he’s actually a nurse practitioner and he’s 23, but I insisted.

“Well, we usually see a great influx of female patients after a long weekend, or after any weekend at all. Many girls forget the golden rule: pee after sex, poop before shower.” I asked him next how he knew Bailey and if she’d been to the clinic before for a similar instance, but he insisted he couldn’t disclose that information. “I’ve only ever seen her around the campus grounds. Oh yeah, she’s a tiny thing. I hope she’s not fucking some giant, 100% all beef flesh thermometer, because she looks like she can hardly handle a garden variety chode. Just one man’s opinion of course, but that man is wearing a white coat. I actually ran into Bailey earlier today and caught her buying some cranberry juice, so I took the liberty of booking her for next Monday, at which point that UTI will be disintegrating her urethral tract like acid rain on the Amazon.”

I thanked the man dressed eerily like a doctor for his time, finally at peace with the story I had crafted. Just as I was leaving, though, he abruptly asked me to get lunch with him. He was cute and I was flattered, but I had to initially decline. Then I saw what it was that he had written his number on: a coupon, 2-for-1 on Ocean Spray.

It’s going to be a long weekend, indeed.