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I don’t know if the stigma of using a public bathroom to defecate was brought
on by genes, public perception, or just the plain nastiness of the normal
gas station potty but it’s there. When I got to go #2, I’d rather do it
at home – thank you very much. Unfortunately, it isn’t always my choice.

It certainly wasn’t my choice this weekend but there I was. I wouldn’t be
settling down with a magazine or newspaper here.
Just do your business and get out. And get out I did. If you are going to
choose a time to poop clean, this is the time. Occasions like this
are like a little victory, making you want to do a little jig. I did, however, precede to pull up my pants before starting my dance steps.

Aren’t you glad that story is out of the way. Me too. How about one more?

The rules of urinal ettiquette are widely known and generally recognized
within the race of men, the world over. When a soul flaunts these
unwritten agreements, it harms us all folks. These very simple
pronoucements go something like:

Unfortunately, the person in front of me as I entered the mall bathroom
this weekend must have been from Mars (or Kentucky, you never can tell).

The bathroom in question had a simple row of four urinals. The first three,
starting on the left were the normal, adult-sized urinals. The last urinal,
found on the right, was a child’s urinal (girls, this one has its height adjusted
to allow the short tikes among us easy access). The man in front of me
happily took stand-up latrine number 2, directly in the middle of the three
adult-sized urinals.

Hold up. Foul. Ref, blow the whistle on this guy. Ten yard penalty.
What was I to do? Do I shuffle in next to him and ignore his sad
breach of ettiquette? Or do I suck it up and take the junior pee pot,
glad to get some distance between him and I?

You guessed it. I had to aim down.
I suppose I felt a bit foolish for my choice. At least I didn’t have to worry
about him asking for my phone number.

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