Draft.

He was one of those One-Uppers; you'd tell a story, and he'd magically have a similar one that always out-did yours. It was annoying as hell, but it sure made that first year of plumbing class go faster. Somewhere along the way he fell through the plumber's crack and left the union to pursue his oh-so-thriving auto mechanic business that he constantly ranted and raved about. Probably just more malarkey, mind you, but that was his story and he stuck to it.

My favorite of his many tales involved a tavern down in Rockland that he used to frequent. In true college humor movie fashion there was a designated night of the week where a ten dollar cover charge rented you a dirty mug that you could have filled with cheap beer for a penny. One red cent per brew seems to good to be true, and it was. The catch was this: the deal only lasted until the first person broke down and took a leak. Well, let me clarify-- used the bathroom. Who was to say that people couldn't go right in there pants? He claimed that grown men often times wore diapers under baggy jeans in order to be able to urinate on the sly. Others duct taped their members into plastic bottles. The first and foolish pioneers in cheating the system tried hiding their weakness in condoms, but that plan blew up in their faces. Well, pants. At least that's how his story went.

And then, as predicted, there were the beefy looking biker types standing in front of the entrance to the John. The collective body of patrons had their own bouncers, but they only bounced you if you tried to use the head. We were fed some whoppers about rolling some sorry slobs in the parking lot for trying to relieve their aching bladders. The One-Upper was one of the guys doing the pounding, according to him, which came off a tad too predictable for our taste.

His tall tales were always entertaining, though. He'd ridden every motorcycle, been to every gentleman's club, proposed marriage while skydiving in Cuba. We smiled, nodded, and continued to solder copper pipe until our instructor let us out at eight o'clock. We let him be the hero for three hours a night, two nights a week. No one had the heart to burst his bubble. We all knew deep down that even if that penny-a-beer bar existed he was no enforcer of the common good; he was only one of the guys who woke up in a saturated pair of Huggies on his ex-girlfriend's couch in a trailer park somewhere.

To his credit he never broke the mold.
Any one of these conjured legends follows the same set of rules:
Those who need talk about it probably haven't done it.
Those who choose to write about it probably want your attention.
Those who only read about it should be dragged out back and shot.