Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Men and Their Bodies

It’s a wonder as many people get married as do.

Women are completely different creatures than men; by and large, they’re much less … let’s see, what’s the right word? … oh, I know – disgusting.

As an example, just spend a few minutes in a public restroom. I don’t mean a public restroom that you’d find in the mall, or maybe in a restaurant. I mean a public restroom in a place of business. Specifically, go find a potty in a place where there’s only one company. That’s the best example; if you find one in a place where there is a public restroom shared across multiple companies, then you get mall-like behavior. To really see what I mean, you want the bathroom in a corporate headquarters of a company, or in a building where only one company resides. That’s when you’ll get it.

I do my best not to use them. I have my reasons, but unless the need is really dire, I’ll put it off until I get home, or at least until I get to “off-peak” hours.

If you’re a woman, it’s obviously going to be harder for you to do this, but maybe if you’re feeling adventurous one day, you can sneak in when no one’s there and hide in one of the stalls. I don’t know. Or, just take my word for it.

I don’t know what the thinking is behind it, but men in a public restroom in their place of work are absolutely nasty. I mean, nasty.

Here are a couple of examples to illustrate. I used to work for company that had the entire second floor of a three-story building. The company that owned the building had strict regulations in the lease regarding where we could and could not go within that building. We were allowed in the cafeteria/dining area, and on the second floor, period, and nowhere else, without prior approval from the leasing company, etc. Fine; not a problem.

So anyway, on this floor there were four restrooms: two for men, two for women.

In the men’s room, there was one urinal and two stalls.

Go into the restroom on any day after about 10 a.m., and atop the urinal, where only a man standing 9 feet tall would be able to reach normally, there would be urine puddles. All under the urinal would be puddles. On the wall behind the urinal, and beside it, were urine marks. Any day of the week, guaranteed. Someone there either had really bad aim, or was deliberately whizzing all over the place.

What kind of person would do that?

Pretty gross, huh? Well, it gets better. One day, I went into that same restroom, and the stench of feces was absolutely overwhelming. I couldn’t stand it. I covered my nose (and mouth to keep from gagging), and looked into one of the stalls. The toilet was clogged with dirty toilet paper, urine and the biggest pile of defecation I’d ever seen from a human. It was as if the individual gave himself an enema in the stall.

Of course, I left to use the other washroom. Ugh.

On those occasions when nature’s call will not wait until I get home, things get even more exciting. I never know exactly what will happen in that nether realm of the bathroom. I have laughed uncontrollably, wanted to weep with anguish, and been nauseated, all by staying quiet in the semi-private domain of the restroom stall.

There are times when I swore the person with me was going to have to have new clothing, because they excreted so much, surely they’d lost sixty pounds. Other times I’d swear the person was having a heart attack and needed help (I didn’t offer to help, of course, but my GOD man, what is WRONG with you??). I was certain in other instances that the person I was hearing was struggling against an opponent, wrestling and sweating, toiling with a task too great for any one man to bear.

What is the matter with these people?? Don’t they realize that those of us outside of their immediate family don’t care to hear that sort of – yuck?? We don’t want to know that much about you, dammit!! Stop sharing it!

The sounds that emanate from the stalls in a men’s room are horrific. And none of us are exempt; I can’t tell you how many times I struggled to keep my anus from blowing fecal raspberries into a crowded men’s room and failed – to my mortification. In those times, I wait patiently for the restroom to empty before shyly creeping back out, hoping no one would recognize me. Don’t ask how I thought they would recognize me. Distinctive shoes, I guess. And who’d be looking at my shoes while I’m in the bathroom? What kind of person does that?

Well, I do for one.

Yep, I’m guilty. I’ve more than once noticed the bunched up pants crumpled at the ankles of a sitter and noted the shoes. Later in the day when I saw those same pants and shoes again, I’d steer clear and try to avoid eye contact. I figured, if I’m doing it, others are too. So I try to keep my private and dirty bodily functions to myself as best I can.

I’ve heard men exhale loudly through flapping lips as they dumped their loads into the toilet, as though this were the culmination of a great effort. I’ve heard men stand at the urinal and let out a long, low groan like they’re having some sort of orgasmic experience by urinating. I’ve heard guys pushing and grunting with tremendous strain, knowing that if I could see their faces, they’d be purple and pursed from the expenditure (and was always so glad I couldn’t). I heard one man pushing until an explosion of material splashed violently into the toilet (and I’m certain it splashed back onto his buttocks when it hit), at which time he panted and heaved as though he’d hefted a huge burden from his shoulders (which, I suppose, is one way of looking at it).

They share so much that we don’t want to know, and they don’t seem in the least embarrassed or concerned that they reveal that much of themselves. They greet each other in the bathroom too, as though they’re in any other social setting. I hate that; I’m only in the restroom for one of two reasons, possibly both, and neither of them are social contact. Leave me alone.

I’ve also heard other, more disturbing things.

I was sitting once in a restroom trying like hell to mind my own business, when someone came in the door. Great, I inwardly groaned, just what I wanted: company. I heard the man step in front of the mirror. I didn’t know what was going on, but he was there for a short time, and then came back to the adjacent stall. I heard him drop the seat, I heard his belt buckle and zipper, and I heard him collapse onto the toilet. No seat cover used. I heard him rectally vomit into the porcelain pool; I heard the sound of toilet paper being taken, and thence used. I heard the man get up from the commode, dress himself, and go out of the stall. I heard him step back in front of the mirrors (hey, idiot, aren’t you forgetting a step here?), and after another brief time there, I heard him leave.

Just like that … no hand washing, no toilet flushing, and no concern whatsoever that I was there to blindly stand witness to the aural crime he’d committed.

I can’t tell you how many men I’ve seen and heard use the urinal and not wash their hands. It’s one of the primary reasons I don’t like to shake hands with anyone I meet, and it’s one of the reasons I’m about a half step away from becoming like Howie Mandell. Even someone born in a barn would realize how sick that sort of behavior is. For the sake of us all, in the name of all that is holy, please – PLEASE! – wash your frickin’ hands, jackass!! No one’s in that big a hurry, I don’t care who you are!

What if one of these vile pigs is your waiter? Or better yet, the person that cooks your food for you? What if it’s the person who assembles your hamburger at the Golden Arches or BK? At least at Subway they wear those ridiculously large vinyl gloves. I’m glad for that, frankly.

I suppose it could be worse … I suppose I could have to watch all these horrors and still try to get through a meal. Like some sort of spectator forced to watch the lions devour the Christians, I could have to watch the atrocities that are men in the bathroom. If they’re like this at work, what are they like at home?

Never mind … I don’t want to know.


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