Urinal Etiquette

Here’s a thing that happened to me the other day that would not upset a well adjusted person, probably.

My bladder was full of urine, so I decided I would get rid of some of that urine by putting it into a urinal. As you do. There was a chap walking in front of me, also en route to the facilities. This happens. Sometimes we men of manly stature and station have to loose wastes at the same time. The fellow and I made eye contact and shared a polite nod and the pursed lips that I seem to think communicates a polite “hello” but also says “Please don’t talk to me. I have nothing to say to you.” So it wasn’t like he didn’t know I was there.

The bathroom was empty. Not another soul stirred in the stalls, not a chap stood at one of four urinal outlets. So why, pray tell, did this man and the 56 inches surrounding his waist choose the urinal two from the leftmost urinal? This is important because the urinal this guy chose was the only urinal flanked on either side by porcelain pee pillars suited for adults. The leftmost urinal, was, in fact, tiny. Intended for children. Or hobbits. Or Michael J. Fox.

So the predicament this very inconsiderate man with high cholesterol put me in was this: I either select one of the adult urinals directly flanking the one he was using and be able to feel his flank steak shoulder brushing against my own, or I act like a man and distance myself from the only other human in the restroom by one urinal length and use the midget urinal.

I bent my knees, angled down, and did what I went there to do.

Standing directly beside another man without a one urinal buffer as you both urinate is wrong. I don’t know how it’s wrong, but it is. There is no real consequence or law of peeing like you’re practicing the buddy the system, but it’s still wrong. It’s wrong like Thanksgiving dinner flavored soda is wrong. It’s wrong like Donald Trump’s hair is wrong. It’s wrong like sheets with a thread count of 6 are wrong. There’s nothing inherently morally wrong with it, but it’s still somehow Darwinistically off. And this walking donut deposit forced me to do it, or squat like I was doing something you shouldn’t do in urinals, because it’s mean to the janitor who has to deal with it.

You’d think the story stops there. You’d think that Porkchop McButterbritches over there, one urinal away from me, had done his lavatory damage and was satisfied making me look and feel stupid. But not old Butterbritches, no. He decides to break the two cardinal urinal rules.

I can feel his gaze burning into the side of my head from my Ivan Rodriguez position. I try to avoid it. But folks, I had lots of urine. And apparently he did as well. Eventually, I just have to turn to look at him. So now we’re looking at each other while we’re both holding our Nelson Mandelas.

“How’s the workday?” gargles the mayonnaise enthusiast.

C’mon. Really? We’re doing this? You ridiculously inappropriate cellulite collector. I respond with a simple, curt reply, crafted to fend off any further conversation. “Fine.”

But does it sway him? No, of course not. The guy who probably had a bunker of cake for breakfast continues. “Man, I’m ready to go home.”

Because God loves me, the flow ended as he spoke the word “go,” so I shake off, zip up, and fling out another witty, timeless comeback. “Yeah.”

And then I leave, that inimitable air of unsatisfied tête-à-tête still floating behind me. And thus ends the example of how not to treat your next one on one urinal experience.

-Claudius Templesmith