This week’s topic: bathroom attendants. I’d be more specific and say male bathroom attendants, but I suspect that would be redundant because I’ve never seen a movie that has shown one in the ladies’ room. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off? The French restaurant has one in the men’s room, plain as day. Trainspotting? Pulp Fiction? No attendant in the ladies’ room… just women bitching about men while doing lines of pure Columbian Bam-Bam. Maybe I’m wrong, but women don’t seem to know this plague… and even if they do, this whole rant is about the guy’s perspective. If you’re female and reading this, you’ll never truly understand.
The whole concept of bathroom attendants strikes me as analogous to guys that beg for change at stoplights. They’re equally fucking useless, and they both operate on exactly the same principle: pay me a dollar so you don’t have to feel guilty. I’ve got news for you, pal… your inability to hold a normal, productive job is not going to be rewarded with a single dime from me. Need some bus fare? Disabled vet? Wanna offer me a hand towel? Same shit in my book, fellas. The only difference is that bathroom attendants cross a line that should never be breached: don’t ever watch me piss. Seriously.
Male bathroom etiquette requires at least one empty urinal between guys taking a leak unless the bathroom is packed… and every heterosexual male knows this. It’s imprinted on our DNA. If the bathroom is empty, you instinctively know to choose the urinal with at least two empty urinals to one side… which is a subtle way of telling other guys walking in that, although I’m secure in my manhood, you should really go piss over there. If I give the two urinal option to someone and they opt to pull it out next to me, this constitutes a breach of etiquette… and alarm bells immediately start ringing. Meat gazer, nine ‘o clock. Be on the lookout. It doesn’t even matter if he looks – the mental trap has sprung. This requires countermeasures which, ironically, require gazing back using only your peripheral vision… because the only thing worse than a meat gazer is a meat gazer with quick hands. Better not take any chances… I’d rather look while trying to make a mental blind spot in the crotchal region than give you a millisecond advantage on grabbing my junk…
I think that’s the closest any man gets to becoming Spider Man. It’s like, for ten short seconds, we’re tuned into hyper-human areas of sensory awareness in an effort to react defensively before the attack on our heterosexuality even begins. And I mean, if you’re ever put into that situation, you better take your time. Piss slowly to avoid having to shake it off first… because every man knows that a penis wiggle will send a meat gazer into an uncontrollable ass-raping fit. If you shake first, be prepared for a fight for your anal virginity on the cold tile floor. And farting? Hell no. That squeak of gas is a tight-asshole advertisement. Better to be as quiet as possible and hope your would-be rapist doesn’t even notice you…
These rules of urinary engagement are universally understood, so you mean to tell me that just because a man is standing next to a bowl of starlight mints, I should ignore the fact that he has a clear line of sight while I take care of business? You’re telling me that it’s okay to hover around me while I answer nature’s call… so long as you hand me a piece of toilet paper when I’m done? And you’re telling me that deliberately defying felony-level man laws should be rewarded with small bills and loose change?? What the goddamn hell, people!? If you’ve ever given one of these guys so much as a Puerto Rican wheat penny, you’re the fucking problem. If staring at dicks and somehow erased the smell of ass in the air, I’d toss a buck here and there. If sweater vests magically removed cigarette butts floating around in the stall, I’d see the point. If lazy assholes in bow ties really made shithole bars selling $2 shots feel upscale, I’d be on board. But it doesn’t. And it never will.
The catch of the evening is usually less interested in whether I’ve washed my hands than whether I’m funny… or good looking… or have job that doesn’t involve hanging around in public bathrooms — so take your Aqua Velva and shove it up your ass. You wanna help, Mr. Fancy-pants? Give me an honest, sober opinion about the girl I’m after and either tell me to go home or sell me a condom. There. That’s good value for money… and that should make you feel better about yourself the next morning even if you did spend a Saturday night willfully watching people vomit.
These idiots are the tip of the iceberg. Stupid people surround us, which means that there is much, much more to come. Stay tuned, fellas… I’m just getting going.
— Bingo