PSA: How to Pee Like a Man
This isn’t a subject that I exactly broach with excitement, but something has to be said. Since I haven’t seen anyone really mention this, I’ll break the ice, because someone has to goddammit.
Can someone tell me please what is it that possesses men to do some of the utterly bizarre things they do when they’re at a urinal?
Oh, by the way, for any ladies that may be reading this, I should probably tell you now: the following may be highly disturbing, educational, disenchanting, or just information you do not want to know. Or all of the above. You’ve been warned.
By and large, this isn’t a comprehensive study. I don’t hang out in men’s rooms and compile statistical research on this. But being the kind of guy who leaves the house and drinks a lot of coffee, I use public restrooms. And, by and large, the vast majority of men typically do what I do in men’s rooms – namely, pee. And by pee, I mean pee with no zeal, aplomb, zest, verve, fanfare or any other kind of attention-seeking style. You get in, you get out. There is no presentation.
The minority, however, do some strange things. To give you an idea of what the hell I’m talking about, below is a (potentially growing) list of the types of eccentric urinators.
This is a guy you know who decides to liven up the peeing experience with a little conversation. It’s a little odd. Not completely strange, but a little odd. I’ll admit I’ve talked to the guy at the next urinal. It’s a locker room thing. You get used to it. However, there are those who insist on talking about anything, usually something intensively work related, and he’s going to talk to whoever is at the urinal next to him. Every time. Now, if you just got out of a meeting, I can see going to the can en masse, and you or the next guy says, “Jesus, I didn’t think the VP would ever shut up,” or something brief and relevant to the what brought everyone into the can. It’s a comment. That doesn’t mean I want to chair an action committee to redevelop the project management flowchart while I’m taking a leak. Does it look like I’m taking notes? It’s just not a good place to have a real conversation. Just talk to me at the coffee maker.
This is the Talker that you don’t know. The guy who wants to talk about the big nuclear explosion in the movie you just saw. Or the chick with the big tits at the bar. Or the chicken fucker they caught in Belize. If I don’t know you, and you are a man standing next to me, do not talk to me while my johnson is hanging out of my pants. The world is strange enough, thanks. I don’t need to wonder if you’re playing with yourself, or if you fit a psych profile that conjures the term “postal” or want to sell me something (perhaps yourself) while I’m going to the bathroom. Just… just don’t.
Also known as the Leaking Super Hero. This person (and there are many) stands at the urinal, feet at least at shoulder width apart, with one fist fixed to his hip, elbow pointed out at a 90-degree angle during the entire peeing experience. It’s the kind of stance that might otherwise be fitting for declaring a land in the name of your country. Or for looking down on the thousands of dead that you and your army have just slaughtered. Or I suppose it could be apropos for standing on a hill crest and gazing down at the baseball diamond you just successfully built on a razed cornfield. It behooves a cape, hence the title(s). I don’t know why or what possesses this person to stand so proud. Perhaps it’s some sort of therapeutic affirmation of penis size, self-assurance or they’re just pretentious. I haven’t proven this, but I stand to wager they are the same type who really, really thinks his car is better than yours. Like you care.
Fairly self-explanatory. He whistles while he pees. It’s a little weirder than the Talker, because it assumes you can’t hear him. Like you’re not standing there, too. Or maybe he does acknowledge he isn’t alone, so he’s providing a public service: music to pee by. I don’t need a soundtrack when I’m in the can. And if I did, something resembling the opening credits to the Andy Griffith show would not be it.
I’ve never seen this guy. I like to think that there’s only one, because I don’t want to realize that there are this many uncouth motherfuckers inhabiting the planet. Or maybe they’re like the Gideons or Muzak musicians, and they’re likewise on some inexplicable mission to secretly torture people with any sense of dignity. I don’t know. But they leave their little trail wherever they go. Literally, in the form of giant boogers on the wall. I thought this ended in high school. Why, WHY must I stare at your fucking snot? Don’t fucking pretend you don’t know who you are, philistine! Why? What’s wrong with a kleenex? Or even eating them for fuck sake? You’re not doing this when other people can see you. So what kind of twisted territorial instinct possesses you to scrape your mucus at eye level on the wall? There is no better place for your boogers? The wall at the urinal is an unspoken, official bulletin board for your heinous behavior? Do you think your boogers need to leave the nest and mate with other boogers? What the fuck is your problem?
Another ninja, like the Slimer. This guy apparently stands about fifteen feet back and takes a sprinkler approach, I guess in the hopes that by going for the greatest area of effect, some of it will land in some appropriate receptacle merely by odds. This is all speculative. Like the Slimer, I’ve never seen this; just the evidence of the large puddles on the floor.
The Petrie Dish
It’s called flushing, fuckface.
Granted this is a miniscule contingent, like maybe .00001%. In fact, I think I’ve only encountered it twice, but the last time was half an hour ago and he inspired me to finally write this, so it gets counted. This is the Whistler who thinks he’s center stage at Radio City Music Hall. This freak is singing Bésame Mucho while he’s peeing. In a public restroom. Never mind the guy in the stall trying to concentrate on his constipation problem. Or the guy in the other stall who ate way too much Taco Bell the night before and is already concerned about his prostate launching out of his rectum. Forget the people walking through the hallway near the door to a giant echo chamber with toilets in it. Never mind that I’m just washing my hands while this is happening, and I now have to go out there and endure the looks of fear and confusion, like I’m somehow an accessory to this. Sing away, fruitcake. You’re in key. Embrace it, and make damn sure we enjoy it too. Celebrate! In fact, this is a notoriously famous and standard scene seen in all great Broadway Musicals. Gershwin practically made it a convention – y’know where the lead is pissing and breaks into song so stupendous that it transforms into a full ensemble number. It’s a good opening for Act 2 actually. Schmuck.
I would like to apologize for everyone who has read this and has had to somehow vicariously suffer the behaviors of others through this journal. But it’s a small sacrifice if one of the dipshits above reads this and realizes the harm they are causing to the collective psyche as a whole.