Public Bathroom Etiquette: An Epic Rant

I despise public bathrooms.

 

Irrational? Allow me to clarify:
It’s not the actual concept of a public bathroom I have beef with. On the contrary, I think they’re an essential component of our everyday existence. Where else would folks, miles away from the comfort of home, go to relieve themselves? 

They’re necessary. I get it.

What I don’t get, however, are the people who use ‘em.

Public bathrooms are where humanity goes to die.

It’s like entering a parallel universe where the normal rules of society no longer apply.
Men enter as civilized, upstanding citizens—but devolve into subhuman savages once the door closes.

Skeptical?

Consider the following:

—In what other aspect of society is it cool to unleash a wet, Earth-shattering fart—while standing a foot or two from another human? Imagine if it happened on a public train. In a library. On a crowded elevator. You’d be a laughingstock. An outcast. However, for some dubious reason, it’s strangely acceptable in the confines of a public bathroom

—Dropping a deuce is the most intimate thing a man can do (unconvinced? Given the choice, I’d rather have people watch me have sex than take a dump. And so would you, homie). Yet in public bathrooms, however, men consistently drop bombs—with someone mere inches away. Separated by nothing more than a thin divider. In fact, as evidenced by disgraced former congressman Larry Craig, you’re nothing more than a wide stance from touching feet with another man. The horror!

—I’m fully aware of the awful noises that come from deep within while I’m using my home facilities. I’d be horrified if I had to subject another poor soul to hearing that. Unfortunately, not everyone shares my sensibilities. ‘Cause I hear all kinds of unsettling noises coming from the stalls of restrooms on a regular basis. Is it too much to ask for a courtesy flush? (a flushing sound > the dreadful noise produced from a man’s rectal cavity)

—Under NO circumstances should one leave a stall—and immediately start a conversation with another man. Seems like common sense, right? Sadly it’s not, my man. You want awkward? Awkward is when someone in the office bathroom—just having unleashed an epic, smelly, loud, excrement-filled dump, followed by wiping feces from his ass crack—opens the stall door and attempts to have a conversation. “Von! Hey, bro! How ‘bout those Bears?! Our O-line sucks, huh?” Dude! I know what you just did! I was right there!

 

Those offenses, while immoral, don’t necessarily break any unwritten rules of bathroom etiquette.

However, in the years that I’ve used public facilities, I’ve seen countless unspeakable transgressions committed by otherwise civilized folks.

I work with hundreds of college-educated professionals. Yet I frequently enter the office bathroom and have to avoid puddles of urine. In the grand scheme, pissing into a urinal is one of life’s easiest tasks. Therefore, how a nonintoxicated man routinely misses a giant bowl is beyond my comprehension.

I also once had the pleasure of sharing a gym bathroom with a dude who neglected to close the stall door while grunting and taking care of business. It’s something I’ll NEVER be able to unsee. An image, try as I might, I can’t erase from my memory.

And the unflushed toilets.
Is flushing that difficult? Trust me: nothing fucks up your day quicker than seeing someone’s unflushed handiwork floating in a toilet.

Disgusting.

 

Not as disgusting, however, as the gentleman who leaves the urinal or stall and bypasses the faucet, neglecting the opportunity to cleanse his body (and soul) of horrible toxins and bacteria.  

I’m of the opinion that humans should have a basic desire to be clean. Long gone are the days when our ancestors, who didn’t have access to today’s advanced technology (liquid soap, hand sanitizer), had no way of cleansing their hands after relieving themselves.

In 2011, we don’t have that problem.

Consequently, there’s no excuse for those who decline to scrub their hands after dropping a deuce.

A contrarian might ask: “Why wash your hands if they’ll just get dirty again?”

Makes sense—until you think about it.

“I just ran a marathon. But I’m not gonna shower—because I’ll just get dirty again.”

“Why wash this sink full of disgusting dishes? Since they’ll get dirty again, I’ll just eat off the soiled ones.”

“Dude, I just took a glorious dump! Why wipe the excrement from my ass? It’ll just get dirty again.”

The man who doesn’t wash his hands will shake YOUR hand.
He handles your food at Subway or Chipotle.
His hands have sullied the documents you handle at work.

This person is not your friend. Or ally.

He cannot be trusted.
Neither can anyone who regularly commits these public restroom transgressions.

It’s a damn shame the rest of us have to suffer.

How it feels: to have a gun pointed at you (a repost/rewrite/reflection)*

*Inspired by Esquire magazine’s old “What It Feels Like…” features. This is a rewrite of a post I wrote several years ago.

 

A strange fellow approached me as I returned to my car late one night.

Who the hell wears a jacket in 80-degree weather? In the middle of summer?
Apparently that guy.

Weirdo.

As he got within speaking distance, he asked if I had the time.

I looked down at my cell.
It was late. 3 AM.
An extremely disappointing night had finally reached its conclusion.
Or so I thought.

When I looked up—I found myself staring down the barrel of a pistol.
______________________
Random fact: I was once a bartender.

Almost 10 years ago. I tended bar for a hole-in-the-wall club in Chicago’s western ‘burbs.

For some inexplicable reason, I thought it’d be a good idea to wear a sleeveless, ripped denim vest to work one evening. Obviously, this was the apex of my meathead days, when I (mistakenly) thought dressing this way was a good look (it wasn’t). Ah, the follies of youth.

As fate would have it, it was a slow night at the club. Therefore, management allowed some of us to depart early.

However, I wasn’t ready for my night to end.
On a whim, I decided to hit a late-night club in the city. Alone. To have a drink and meet some ladies.

My first destination was a Wicker Park lounge. Paje.
The lady at the door took one look at my Larry the Cable Guy outfit and all but said, “You ain’t gettin’ in here lookin’ like THAT, homie.”

Still not content, I drove to yet another nightclub. The Biology Bar.
It was located in a busy club/bar district on the near north side of the city.
The area was packed! So much so that there wasn’t a parking spot nearby; the nearest one was four blocks away.

At the door, they informed me of an outrageous $25 cover.
It was too late to turn back; I begrudgingly paid and headed inside.

Unfortunately, it was a bad idea.
The music sucked. I didn’t meet any women (I was shocked that the ladies didn’t like my outfit. SHOCKED!). Also, few experiences are more awkward than going clubbing alone.

I left after less than 45 minutes—disappointed that I wasted $25 and didn’t have fun.

There was ample time to reflect on my disappointing night during the long trek back to my vehicle.
Safe to say: next time I’d just go home.

 

My thoughts were interrupted when, a few feet from my car, I was approached by a guy in a jacket who asked if I had the time.
______________________________

Hindsight is 20/20.

How could I have been so stupid?
The jacket on a hot summer night should’ve been a dead giveaway. He asked for the time to divert my attention from him drawing his pistol from said jacket.

Since I had parked so far away—no one else was around.
No passing cars. No pedestrians.

Just him. And me.

He wasn’t big though. Nor intimidating.
Instead, he was short. Dumpy.
I towered over him.

However, none of that mattered.
‘Cause he had the great equalizer: The heat.

Dude was clear: he wanted my keys and wallet. Immediately.

He stood two feet away—with the gat pointed directly at my chest.

 

Everything happened so fast.
Given time to think rationally, I’d have simply given him what he wanted.
However, emotion trumped logic at that particular moment.

So, let me get this straight: after the night I’d just had, I was supposed to give my valuables to that prick? How dare he? He’d have to pry them from my cold, dead hands before I surrendered them willingly.

 

I rushed him.

My desire was to take all of my frustrations from that night out on him.
Fucking asshole.
Although, there was the little matter of separating him from the gun first. To avoid getting blasted in the face and all.

I focused on disarming him by grabbing his arm (the one with the gun) with both hands.
We struggled for what seemed like an eternity.
Hard as I tried, I couldn’t get the gun out of his hand.
He twisted and contorted himself like a worm so that I couldn’t.

 

Next thing I know: we were back to square one.
With him holding the heat on me and asking for my keys and wallet yet again.

Only this time, dude had a puzzled expression. His look all but said, “I can’t believe you just did that.”
He’d also learned from his previous blunder; dude stood farther away so I couldn’t rush him and catch him off guard. He glanced over at a guy standing on the opposite corner. Sadly, it wasn’t someone coming to help. They were in cahoots; it was a two-man operation.

At that point, I knew I was a goner—whether I acquiesced or not.

 

I turned and sprinted toward the alley behind me, sure that I’d hear his gun discharge and feel a bullet go right into my spine.

But it didn’t happen.
And thankfully, his partner wasn’t waiting for me on the other side of the alley.

I gained my composure enough to call 9-1-1.

They arrived shortly thereafter. Upon being told what happened, they shared that this sort of thing happened often in the area. Apparently, many a person had been robbed in a similar manner. But I was the first one who fought back.

After offering a description, they scoured the area looking for them. Said they’d call me to ID him at the station if they caught him.

Sadly, I never received that call.

 

Almost 10 years later, I still often reflect on the events of that night.

Was I courageous?
Lucky?
Irrational?
Incredibly stupid?
Blind to common fashion sense (seriously, a sleeveless denim vest?)?

Is it possible to be all of those things simultaneously?

The important thing is that I’m alive to tell the story.

That’s gotta count for something.

Tales from the Green Line: The night a fool tried to jack me for my iPad

She was staring right at me.

The same attractive young lady—rockin’ the bright yellow sundress—who caught my eye when she boarded the train a few stops earlier. She sat a few feet away in the adjacent aisle.

Yet, ol’ girl wasn’t giving me a “Hey there, big boy. Yeah, I’m checking you out” look.
Instead, once she caught my attention—she seemed to be trying to get me to notice the dude standing next to me.

I glanced up and there was indeed someone hovering over me.
It was a young, skinny brotha. He wore a flannel shirt, sagging jeans, and tilted baseball cap. Kinda thuggish looking. 

Under normal circumstances, I would’ve paid dude no mind and continued reading on my iPad. 
However, this wasn’t no ordinary situation, homie.

I was riding the Green Line train from downtown Chicago (where I work) back to lovely Forest Park (where I live). I’ve had the same routine for years.

My daily commute is interesting because there’s a wide spectrum of folks who utilize the train.
On one hand, there are the professionals who commute downtown for work. Conversely, the train passes some of the shadiest ‘hoods in Chicago’s crime-ridden west side. Consequently, there’s often a criminal element intersecting with the professional one.

Oftentimes, chaos ensues.

Being a Green Line vet, I’ve witnessed some rather unfortunate happenings in my day.
Like the time a youngster blasted obscene, expletive-laced krunk music in front of horrified passengers. Or the night a crackhead called me a bitch.

The latest disturbing trend involves hooligans jacking unsuspecting folks for their coveted Apple products (the media call it “Apple picking”).

I’ve witnessed people get iPhones snatched by young delinquents who then sprint off the train and into the Chicago night. Not that these crimes transpire exclusively in the evening. One morning, a young lady got her iPhone snatched in broad daylight. She actually made a valiant effort to pursue him, screaming, “Give me back my phone, you son of a bitch!” Unfortunately, since her chase went through a downtrodden west side neighborhood—I’m guessing she failed to retrieve her phone.

This local epidemic even made national news when the brother of rocker Billy Corgan got his iPod jacked by one of FIVE punks. Also, an elderly lady was killed earlier this year after being pushed down a flight of stairs by a teen trying to escape after snatching a phone.

Damn shame.

The key takeaway: if you’re using a smartphone, mp3 player, or tablet on the train—be the hell aware of your surroundings!

I know this, yet I was still caught off guard by the teen standing over me looking suspicious. Also, sitting next to the doors made me even more of a likely candidate to get got. All the pieces were in place for me to be the next Apple-picking victim.

Seems ol’ girl in the sundress knew what was about to go down and was trying to warn me.

Any remaining doubt that dude was up to no good was quelled when he asked about the Batman digital comic I was reading (yes, I am a spectacular, comic book–reading nerd).

At that point, it would’ve been wise to err on the side of caution and put the iPad in my bag—removing his opportunity to snatch it and flee.

Why risk it?

However, something weird happened: my pride kicked in.

Maybe I’ve been reading too much Batman.
Or watching too much UFC.
Or, I’m just quite possibly a magnificent dumbass.

But I’ll be damned if I’m gon’ let some asshole punk me for my hard-earned gadget.
If he’s got the balls to take it, then outrun me afterward—more power to him. He deserves it.
However, I’ll let that happen over my dead body.

Therefore, I continued reading The Dark Knight Returns while dude hovered. Soon, the train came to its next stop, a perfect opportunity for him to test me when the doors opened.

Now, maybe the youngster knew I was on to him. Or he wasn’t interested in the epic smackdown he’d have gotten. But ol’ boy simply decided to exit the train—without starting any trouble.

It was a monumental victory for us common folks!

Or was it?

Because afterward, the knucklehead got off and sprinted to the next car. There he seemingly met up with an accomplice, another thuggish-looking punk. Together, they surveyed that train for potential victims. Unable to find one, they got off at the last stop before the suburbs. It appeared as if they were about to catch the next train back toward downtown—most likely to look for more folks to rob.

Unfortunately, the cycle continues.