Wash After Reading.

Well, George Michael died.  As if that’s not shitty enough, today I had an awkward situation at work.

Not a shituation, per se, but given the setting I’d suppose you could make an argument that the Chrisism applied.

Because it was in the bathroom at PDX.

No.  This is no Larry Craig/wide stance awkwardness, just basic public bathroom weirdness.  Given George’s infamous peccadillos with public restrooms, I thought maybe sharing a few of my 2016 greatest shits moments might take some of the sting out of losing yet another icon this year.

I dated a guy about 10 years ago who used to say that my humor was a little blue…go figure.

The sounds of a video game interrupt my focus on the matter at hand this morning.  For a moment, I forget where I am.  I’m not on the bus, I’m not in a Chipotle…I’m deucing out at work.  There are three stalls, whenever possible, I prefer the stall nearest the wall.  I don’t know why.  Corner lot syndrome, perhaps?  It is arguably real estate.

Normally, my bathroom ire remains at bay.  Anyone who wants to call me immature needs to leave a bathroom without washing their hands while in my presence.  Then you’ll know my maturity level.  It’s quite an exercise in self restraint, not suggesting that they share the secret of clean junk or me sharing the un-secret that junk just ain’t clean.  Nevertheless, I somehow manage.  If you want a good laugh, though, follow me into a public restroom – I won’t read anything into it, swearsies – and watch the contortions I go through in order to not touch a door handle.

But back to today.  Some asshat in the center of three stalls – bewilderingly, he didn’t take the larger, handicapped stall…managing to eschew the extra space it includes for his obvious comfort – takes up residence next to my stall and plays a fucking video game.  With the volume on high.

Super high.

Full blast, I might wonder.  Which is fine if he is using the video game soundtrack to cover his own full blast.  It that case, I would thank him.  Maybe.

I was glad that he wasn’t here last week when the guy in the handicap stall was talking to (I think) his wife when he came into the john, popped into the handicap stall, dropped trow and then caught a ride to town on the porcelain bus…all the while playing off his location.

Seriously?

I proudly double flushed when I left.

I wasn’t even uncomfortable when he came out of the stall a moment after me.  It was weird that he looked to be about 70.  Even weirder when he managed not to pick up on my glare of disapproval, a situation he exacerbated by leaving without washing his hands.

How did he make it past the bubonic plague?

Even before George decided to make this Christmas his Last Christmas, I was thinking about this blog entry.  A friend of mine, let’s call her Linda Belcher for no real reason…invited me over to bake Christmas cookies last week.  I replied that it really wasn’t my type of thing, since I’m not much of a baker.  She went silent.  As the date for the invite approached, I got the best of myself and asked if she was dead set on baking cookies.  I hadn’t seen her in too long.  The last time I had reached out about getting together, she made some lame excuse about being in Hawaii with her husband, so I was itching to get together with them.  Yeah…there was another person coming, but I didn’t have to bake, just hang out and drink wine and watch Christmas movies.

I go.

Her friend, Lily, suggests that we watch Ali Wong’s latest stand up special.  Ok…not the most Christmas-y sounding of shows, but I’m flexible.

It was pretty friggin’ hilarious.  Reverse racism jokes aside, her schtick on what she calls “blowing ass” at work was a pretty good ab workout.

You watch.

My point here is that this shit has been ruminating for a while.

During the show, I remembered some bathroom awkwardness at the work conference I went to in Atlanta early last month.  My stomach gets upset when I travel.  Totally manageable, it’s not French Kiss “lactose intolerance” moment…but borderline buffet food and too much alcohol didn’t do much to help the situation.  When I didn’t have time to run up to my room on the 11th floor of the conference center between break outs, I made a break for the furthest stall I could from the bathroom door.

That stall was designed to both make me feel like my issues had some cover and also call out the fact that someone was camping out in the stall.

If the damned automatic flush could manage to not set itself off while it was still in use, the horrendous sound of a pneumatic flush gone wrong was bound to make you want to stay in the stall until everyone on the planet had died.

Now, imagine that happening randomly while using that toilet.

Now, imagine that happening in a room you had to leave the stall and be confronted with a half dozen co-workers.

Now, imagine not realizing you spent ten minutes in that stall making sounds like Venus Williams on the courts at Wimbledon before coming out.

Thankfully, I learned to avoid that stall on day one, well before the full group had arrived.  But every damned time I walked into the bathroom, my eyes looked for feet under that stall and god help me…somehow I managed to not laugh out loud the time my ears detected someone’s presence in that stall before my eyes did.

Uuuughn!!!

Ace.

Uuughnnnn!!!

30-0.

Uuuuughnnnnuuuhh!

40-love.

Ughn.  Uuuughhhhh.

Game.

And just to finish on a note that isn’t sooooo gross as guys blowing ass in a public restroom yet still somehow manages to bring this mess back full circle to our iconic and dearly departed George Michael, since it was his death that finally acted as catalyst for putting fingers to keyboard on this rather “brownish” blue topic…what the hell is it with guys vocalizing while urinating?

Seriously…sometimes I think my urinal is the only one not attached to lips and a throat.  when the guy next to you lets out an overly satisfied “Aaaaahhhh” as soon as he unzips and fishes his “special purpose” out of his pants…well, I want to offer him a cigarette.  It’s unnerving.  When it happens in a busy restroom, it’s like the Gregorian chant.  If the monks had recorded their chanting in a gay bath house.

And I don’t even think they’re aware it’s happening.

Even when it’s so good they have to brace themselves against the wall with their free hand.  I mean, when peeing feels so good that your knees might buckle?  Sit down.  There’s no shame.  Plus, it leaves your hands free to play video games.

Apparently.

Sure, video-game-playing and cell-phone-talking guys should know better.  Not-washing-his-hands guy should certainly know better.  But these other guys either need some sexual healing or they need to find a bathroom sooner.  Peeing doesn’t feel that good.

Maybe it’s me.  Perhaps I’m doing it wrong.

Nah.

It’s totally these weirdos.

Well, now that George has left us, I’m sure you won’t hear anything more from me on this topic until I actually run into Larry Craig in the bathroom.

And here’s hoping it doesn’t come to that.

Love and pee-za.

Now, go wash your hands.

Wash After Reading.

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