The Whizzinator makes a welcomed return to American consciousness, prompting largely unrelated speculation

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Quite recently the world has been graced with yet another perpetrator of the vaunted “Whizzinator.” Italian runner Devis Licciardi was caught with the same famous fake member that signaled the beginning of the end of Onterrio Smith‘s NFL career.

The Whizzinator, if you don’t know, or if you’ve been soaking in ivory liquid for your entire lift, is meant to look like an authentic penis. This penis is then filled with synthetic urine, and then is used in some form, presumably some sort of squeezing action, to dispense the aforementioned synthetic urine into whatever vessel requires its presence.

While there are certainly a slew of jokes at any pundits disposal relative to the Whizzinator, not the least of which is the fact that in order to refill a whizzinator you must literally purchase something called a “Golden Shower,” the Whizzinator company’s cute name for it’s synthetic urine refills.

For what it’s worth, in the case of Smith at least, anyone who is desperate enough to purchase something called a Golden Shower in order to remain employed probably deserves to smoke some weed. A person who purchases the wrong color probably doesn’t deserve employment, however.

Licciardi’s use of the Whizzinator is ostensibly more nefarious though, as the world of international endurance competitions have become breeding grounds for PED users.

Nonetheless, another appearance of the Whizzinator into the public eye has forced thoughts in my brain that have never occurred before. For years, while I’ve been aware of the Whizzinator, I’ve never thought through the early years of the business. The salt of the earth (pun intended) guy that had to execute the trials of the research and development team hasn’t left my mind since I was on my way into work listening to the story on the radio.

Imagine, you’re a chemist. You’re a scholar. An honorable man and/or woman. Maybe the grant ran out on whatever stem cell project or disease cure you were working on. You apply for several jobs, you really try, but nothing pans out. You pull up Craigslist, surely not the recruiting ground for scientists like yourself, but little Timmy’s feet are growing.

You love little Timmy, but if little Timmy has any future of going to college and competing in an increasingly challenging job market, you need to work.

So you email this company looking for a scientist to do R&D work. You apply in blissful ignorance. You get an email back. You’re cautiously optimistic that this will be the answer to the rut you’ve been in occupationally. You arrive at the interview, the office smells of skunks and the interviewer’s eyes are glossed over. His three-day beard has the residue of Funyuns lingering in it, but it’s only 9:30 AM. Who eats Funyuns at 9:30 AM?

You lay down your resume and the interviewer doesn’t notice. He introduces himself, chuckles, opens his desk drawer, and brings yet another Funyun to his mouth. He asks if you’d like one and clumsily gestures to you with the open end of the bag. You decline.

“Want to see where you’ll be working?” says the interviewer. You hesitantly oblige him. You enter a room whose door was ajar before your entry. Inside this room is an enormous stock pot sitting on a gas stove, a series of buckets, a PH tester, and several containers filled with a granulated substance. The room smells like a men’s bathroom – and suddenly you realize that this is no ordinary lab.

You are the missing piece to this Whizzinator empire. Once anonymous in a sea of your scientific peers, you’ve encountered a company that is quite literally in the process of pissing away their business. You now have a chance to be a somebody. You have a chance to do something amazing.

And for the rest of your life, you, little Timmy, and your significant other live happily ever, spending as much time together as you can between sessions of boiling urine and urine-like substances down to a solid and counting your millions.

Long live the Whizzinator.