Well, adoring fans and dedicated nemesi, this is my last ode to passionate ranting about nothing. I will soon disappear into the undying lands of employment, bills, foster kids, fast food, “Ellen,” oil changes, excessive gambling and, lets just be honest, most likely some form of prostitution. I will greatly miss this opportunity to communicate with the masses without fear of accountability or public forum.
In the search for my last topic of wisdom to impart to all of you literary plebeians, I retreated to my usual location of inspiration — the restroom. As I walked in and embraced my friend at the urinal, I realized — this social faux pas (using the restroom) is an inevitable part of any day, and it occurred to me that the regulations that govern our stay at The Hotel Commode have never been documented. They have been alluded to, prodded at, spoken of and generationally passed down, but, unless the Urban Outfitters book collection has recently expanded without my knowledge, have never been recorded. As my final contribution to your cerebral cortex, I give you — BATHROOM ETTIQUETTE.
No. 1 The most obvious rule (for men) is that you must always leave as many urinals between you and your new comrade-in-arms as possible. Personally, I violate this rule whenever I find the opportunity, not because I enjoy being hated, but because I feed on discomfort like an aging witch feeds on the youthful hearts of the young.
No. 2 There are three ways of inquiring about the occupancy of a bathroom stall. One, the distant “stoop and glance” (also, coincidentally, the name of the musical I am currently writing). If you are eight feet tall, as I am, you must be nearly on all fours before you can even see a toe under the door. This is acceptable only if there is no one surrounding you, for it can obviously be misconstrued as an act of an indiscreet peep (let’s leave Tom out of this for once). With the “stoop and glance,” the trick is to not overshoot it, lest you make eye contact and your entire social future is capootie. Second, is the moderate knock. The inevitable trouble with this method is the sheer terror of the possible occupant. Nothing is more terrifying than being forced to vocally reveal your identity and current recreation to an intruder whose identity and true intentions are unknown. When someone knocks on my stall door, I always instantly assume it is either Hannibal Lecter or Captain Jack Sparrow. That’s when I pull up my feet and sit in 10 minutes of silence and heart palpitations. Third, is the gentle door push. This method is the most demanding of superlatives in that it always leads to either heartwarming success or heartbreaking tragedy. If the lock on the door is any weaker than the strength of your pointer finger, you are left backpedaling faster than a unicyclist on a broken treadmill.
No. 3 In case of absolute emergency, toilet covers can be used as toilet paper. But, as in life, even where there is no shame, there may still be chaffing.
No. 4 It is not necessary to use the hand dryers completely. You may dabble, but you may not doddle. We know it takes nearly an hour for those atrocities to work, but no one will judge you if you leave the restroom with tap water residuals on your hands. Heaven forbid you wipe your hands on what should be a clean shirt. If you’re that terrified of your own clothing, I just don’t know how you wear it. And while we’re at it, what is with the phobia of people discovering your wet hands when you leave the bathroom? Does anyone ever really see someone, post-pot, and think, “Wow, that person must have just gone into the bathroom to urinate all over their hands.” NO. We know, kid. We know.
There are obviously many more rules but I will save them for a much more graphic Graphic. Perhaps you are reading this on the privy as we speak. Perhaps you and your teddy bear are enjoying The Pagemaster and a pop-tart. Perhaps you are bound and gagged in the basement of a masochistic psycopath. Regardless, I wish you, my dear loyal readers, a wonderful life. Tata, for now. (I’ll be back).
