A Fastidious Bird

Previously: Dropping The Kids Off at the Pool
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I don’t like using public restrooms. But since I spend forty hours a week of my life at the office, and I drink lots of coffee, it is very likely that I would have to use the office restrooms. Luckily, I have worked for mid-to-large size companies for all of my career, where professional maintenance people clean the restrooms two to three times a day. I think I would quit if I ever worked for a company where restrooms are not sanitized regularly. I’m a professional, why shouldn’t my ass sit on a professionally cleaned toilet seat?

And please, nothing, NOTHING, short of a divine order from the holy Madonna Louise Ciccone will make me use a port-a-potty. I would rather crap in my pants; I pray this would never happen on a day I am wearing a thong.

In the public restrooms out in the wild, concrete jungle, I do all sorts of things that I don’t do at home. I’m a fastidious bird, inspecting every toilet seat in the restroom before I make a choice on which one to use. Then, I carefully wipe the seat down before I start building my nest of toilet paper. I systematically lay two-feet strips of toilet paper across the seat so as to cover every inch of its surface. Only then am I ready to sit and lay my "eggs."

I am always amazed at people who can walk in a stall, pull down their pants, do their business and walk out in two minutes flat, like it’s a competition. Men are so weirdly competitive. We can make a contest out of anything. Peeing contests, farting contests, masturbating contests. Name a bodily function, some 17 year-old is out there challenging his buds:

"I betcha I can out-shit you"
"No way, man"
"ok--GO!"
Pffffffffftt-prrt-splat-pfft-PRRRRRTT-plop-pow-kachow!
"I win, sucka, woo-hoo! Check it out man, it stinks worse than yours!"
"Yeah dude, that is huuugge!"
(high fives all around)

And then there are those who have to greet everybody on their way to the restroom. You’d think they were Belle in the opening sequence of Beauty and The Beast:

"Bonjour!"
"Good day!"
"I’m on my way, monsieur!"
"Where to, Belle?"
"To the restroom!"
"Très merveilleux, Belle, have a good time!"
(music swells)
"There must be more than this pro-veen-cial liiiiiiife!"

I’m more like a secret agent or Anne Frank hiding from the Nazis. I skulk silently towards the restroom, stopping at the copy room to throw people off. I keep my head down, trying not to make eye contact when I am in there. It really makes me uncomfortable when people try to make conversation with me, as if we were at a gentleman’s club, smoking cigars.

The worst are the ones who decide to chat when they are in the next stall, as if you were a priest in a confessional. I want to say, "Listen buddy, when my pants are around my ankles, the only thing your mouth better be doing is sucking my dick."

Nobody is more considerate than me. I never pee without raising the seat. I always check afterwards to flush down any "left-overs." After I have had Indian food, I make like a space shuttle bay, forming a airtight seal with my thighs while I am seated to create a vacuum so that no odors escape, flushing it into outer space in-between "drops."

Why am I so hung up about this? Other men seem to be very nonchalant about the whole thing. I wish I could be like that. I think that sometimes, being "civilized," having "good etiquette" has made me too self-conscious, plagued with self-doubt.

And women, do they even take a crap?

Sometimes, I just want to let out a big, stinking log and just leave it there without flushing.