Why Going to the Bathroom Anywhere but Your Own John Sucks AKA My Rant Against Public Bathrooms.

As a disclaimer and warning: the following may contain bathroom humor. If you are offended by such or just don’t think it’s funny, you’re probably wasting your time. Go to church or something instead of reading any further.





No matter how badly I feel the need to heed Nature’s call, it’s always a big, goddamned pain in the ass to do it anywhere except my own little water closet at home.
Let’s think about it logically:

You go into the public restroom at your job, a restaurant, a library, a grocery store, etc and whether you pull up to the Yoo-RHY-nal or the stall (derived from where they keep pigs and cows and other stupid creatures. Ironic.) it’s just the beginning of a chain of events that no matter what you do is sure to put you in a far worse mood than you were in before you went in—regardless of how close your bladder was to bursting.

The urinal:
You’d think this would be a slam dunk as far as the easiest, most efficient method to do your business, but no. For one thing, there’s always this mysterious puddle, right underneath the urinal. What exactly is the challenge in actually getting your piss into the thing when you’re standing 2 inches from it with about 6 inches of space between the corporeal exit and the water? Are people trying fucking tricks like freestyle pissing or something? I cannot fathom why the piss puddle appears beneath every urinal around.
Solution? Put indentations in the ground beside it with footprints so people know exactly where to stand since it seems like people are going for distance or something.
And would it kill people to make it so while I’m reading the article in that case, I can actually finish reading the story if I so choose? “Crpl. Adams then hit the dirt as his unit came under fire when all of a sudden….SEE COVER STORY PG. A-4.” Thanks for that. Assholes.

The stall:
Is there a more ill-conceived concept than the public restroom stall? Should perfect strangers really be forced to move their bowels in a common 3’ x 5’ area? Whether you’re a germaphobe or just someone who cringes at the idea of putting one’s ass on the same seat that had God-knows-what done to it in the last five minutes, dropping Uncle Charlie in public just plain sucks. You gotta fuck around with that stupid toilet-seat shaped paper that’s made out of the same stuff the barber tries to choke you with and somehow get that to remain in place long enough for you to plop down on it, without it blowing away or slipping so that your skin actually comes in contact with the porceteria.
Either that or waste what little TP is guaranteed to be there by putting several protective layers to ensure the sterility of your cheek skin.
And people, please listen when I tell you: It’s ok to be modest with the noises that come out of your body while you’re doing your thing. Hearing the door open to the restroom is not a casting call for your best interpretation of a tuba as performed by your ass. It never ceases to amaze me what sounds people will emit in the presence of others.

So you’ve done your deed, now:

A) If you’re like most of my co-workers, it’s time to blaze out the door and go back to work, carrying the Outbreak monkey around on your hands.

Or

B) If you’re like me, it’s time to actually wash your hands.

Washing your hands is even a pain in the ass. You’re usually faced with a couple of scenarios:

1. The Super Duper Magic Motion Detector Faucet Turner-Onner: Allegedly, there is a point in space, somewhere in the vicinity of the sink where if you hold your hands there, right fucking there, not a millimeter off in any of the 3 dimensions, water will dispense uninterrupted from the spigot.
2. The one where you press the thing down and water is supposed to flow and then the thing goes back up and it stops. How big, exactly, were the motherfucker’s hands that designed this thing? How in the name of shit, am I supposed to get my hands adequately cleaned with that split-second of water? By the time I hit it and move my hands under, the goddamned thing is turned off already. You gotta put some soap on, then have one hand hold the knob down, and then try to have one hand scrub itself, like you’re thumbing through a stack of money. Or you can just get soap all over the knobs, the sink and everywhere trying to keep pushing the thing down. Look, I’m 28 years old. I can fight and die for my country. I can vote for my leaders. Hell, I can run to be one of those leaders. I can sit in a casino and play poker for 36 straight hours slurping rot gut scotch and get 10 lap dances afterwards should I choose to. I am an of-age, responsible adult and I am perfectly fucking capable of deciding for myself exactly how much goddamned water I think is the proper amount with which to cleanse my hands. I will turn it on when I want and when they’re clean, I’ll turn it off. I’ve already had the low flow shower head forced down my throat and the low flow toilet that can only swallow 1 square of toilet paper at a time. I listened to the whiny bitch on TV who told me to turn off the faucet while I’m brushing my teeth. I hardly ever wash my car. I GIVE A HOOT. Please, please, please just let me operate my own public bathroom faucet.

Now you’ve washed your hands and another couple of things can happen:

Your hands are dripping wet and you search around for some paper towels only to find one of those wall-mounted hot-air blower units. You know the ones. Every single one in America has been graffitied by some dumb ass who didn’t realize that somebody in 1983 already thought to scratch out the “on” off the end of “push button.” It’s not funny anymore. The damned thing is most likely out of order. Even if it does work, I don’t, as of yet, recall ever walking out of a bathroom with one of those things with my hands any drier than they were when I left the sink, save what dripped off. Sorry that I don’t have 10 whole minutes to stand there while that thing tries in vain to evaporate the water without burning my skin off.

Or:

Your hands are dripping wet and you search around for some paper towels only to find some dumbass holding some paper towels out for you while standing next to his sympathy tip bucket, boxes of cheap cologne, breath mints, cigarettes, playing cards, walkmans, shoe shine, electric razor, chassis lube kit, microwave, VCR, ferris wheel, greeting cards, and delicatessen.
I’m not in the mood to fucking impulse shop, I just want to take a piss. And I’m certainly never, EVER, going to give another man (or woman for that matter) and of my goddamned money to assist in that process in any way. I’ve been practicing for almost 30 years, I don’t need any help, I’ve got it, I’m good. Why do they trust that sonofabitch to turn the faucet on and off for me? I have a college degree. He works in a fucking bathroom. You do the math.