Hazards of Portable Electronic Devices
I ran into a *situation* the other day in the men's restroom. Noo, not that kind of situation! Anyway, I don't mean to launch into another tirade on urinals, but I think that a slimy public restroom can create some singularly thorny situations that really prey on our personal insecurities. What's more, it's one of those rare times for solitary contemplation. Breathe in... and now... exhale...
But now suppose, just for the moment if this is not in fact so, that you are male, and that you have entered... The Dewomanized Zone. Indeed, you have stepped foot inside a public men's restroom (complete with a line of urinals and everything). After having judiciously chosen a urinal (second from the end, not the short one, and not the first or last one), you settle in to take care of the business end of this affair.
Before you can even get started, however, That Guy wanders in and chooses the adjacent urinal to your left, despite the overwhelming surplus of alternatives. He has committed an unpardonable breach of bathroom etiquette. That Guy is a well-dressed youngish chap, at any rate. "He's right 30," you might say, if you were from that part of the world. He looks friendly enough, and if he were a friend-of-a-friend that you met at happy hour, you know, you'd probably buy him a beer. But you are not at happy hour. You are attempting to urinate.
He settles in. Your concentration is broken. Worryingly, you sense that you may not be able to pull it off. Inside your head, where your brain is and your discomfort lies, your agitated pleas grow increasingly despondent and you find yourself glancing up and you're worried that he overhears the commotion: "come on, relax, just let it go, just let it leave, let it go home, just go home, home in the porcelain bowl, are you too good for your home?!!"
Suddenly, just as your new companion settles in for the job and you are about to convince yourself to do likewise, a strident (and very much unsettling) uproar erupts in the near pocket of his pants: "Die muthafuckas, die muthafuckas, DIE!"
It is his ringtone. Someone is calling him. Now you know very well that he can't exactly answer his call at the moment. Nor can he reach down to silence the offending device. Not during The Business. And so the ringtone drones on, interminably repeating: "Die muthafuckas, die muthafuckas, DIE!"
He glances embarrassingly in your direction. You turn your hips slightly away from him. You think of Donny and Walter and the Dude: "You're phone's ringing, Dude."... "Shut the fuck up, Donny." Soon, it is over. But not completely. You know what is coming now. Wait for it... wait for it... ::shrill beeping::.
It is his voicemail notification. He has received a voicemail. At this point, he has also regained a free hand, so he apologetically reaches down to silence the unruly beeping (you scoot over to avoid the reach-down; meanwhile you have given up on any business ambitions of your own). He finishes The Business sans flushing and hurries out the door while dialing his missed call. The bastard. Motherfucker didn't even wash his hands.
But now suppose, just for the moment if this is not in fact so, that you are male, and that you have entered... The Dewomanized Zone. Indeed, you have stepped foot inside a public men's restroom (complete with a line of urinals and everything). After having judiciously chosen a urinal (second from the end, not the short one, and not the first or last one), you settle in to take care of the business end of this affair.
Before you can even get started, however, That Guy wanders in and chooses the adjacent urinal to your left, despite the overwhelming surplus of alternatives. He has committed an unpardonable breach of bathroom etiquette. That Guy is a well-dressed youngish chap, at any rate. "He's right 30," you might say, if you were from that part of the world. He looks friendly enough, and if he were a friend-of-a-friend that you met at happy hour, you know, you'd probably buy him a beer. But you are not at happy hour. You are attempting to urinate.
He settles in. Your concentration is broken. Worryingly, you sense that you may not be able to pull it off. Inside your head, where your brain is and your discomfort lies, your agitated pleas grow increasingly despondent and you find yourself glancing up and you're worried that he overhears the commotion: "come on, relax, just let it go, just let it leave, let it go home, just go home, home in the porcelain bowl, are you too good for your home?!!"
Suddenly, just as your new companion settles in for the job and you are about to convince yourself to do likewise, a strident (and very much unsettling) uproar erupts in the near pocket of his pants: "Die muthafuckas, die muthafuckas, DIE!"
It is his ringtone. Someone is calling him. Now you know very well that he can't exactly answer his call at the moment. Nor can he reach down to silence the offending device. Not during The Business. And so the ringtone drones on, interminably repeating: "Die muthafuckas, die muthafuckas, DIE!"
He glances embarrassingly in your direction. You turn your hips slightly away from him. You think of Donny and Walter and the Dude: "You're phone's ringing, Dude."... "Shut the fuck up, Donny." Soon, it is over. But not completely. You know what is coming now. Wait for it... wait for it... ::shrill beeping::.
It is his voicemail notification. He has received a voicemail. At this point, he has also regained a free hand, so he apologetically reaches down to silence the unruly beeping (you scoot over to avoid the reach-down; meanwhile you have given up on any business ambitions of your own). He finishes The Business sans flushing and hurries out the door while dialing his missed call. The bastard. Motherfucker didn't even wash his hands.
posted by TheTrayTiger at 2:36 AM
4 Comments:
Breathe deep...even the lowest dog in the pack has the balls to pee when needed. Let it go- you deserve it, you worked for it. It is time., pee, be free...
http://dontkilltheparamedic.blogspot.com
One solution in the future. AVOID urinals!
you sounded like adrienne in this post, in a good and endearing way.
Ick. Not washing his hands?! Oh, well dude, it's his cell phone. ~wu
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