Dear men of the 18th floor,
Why are you the way you are? I hate so much about all the things that you choose to be. I have witnessed two of you in the act, but I suspect there are more of you than I think. Why is this so difficult? Why can’t you take 10 seconds to save the rest of us a moment of annoyance and mild disgust? To reiterate: Why are you the way you are?
More bluntly: Why can’t you flush the fucking urinal?
What’s the problem here? Is it too much to ask that when you take your hands off Mr. Happy you move them approximately three feet upward and press the circular metal disk to whisk the pee-pee off on a magical journey through miles of mysterious and fanciful plumbing pipes to the whimsical kingdom of the “water treatment facility?” Have you not cracked the code on the fabulous advances in plumbing technology that prevents it from just sitting there? Are you trying to preserve Colorado’s precious and scarce water resources by eliminating a few flushes per day? Do you do this at home? Were your parents deficient in raising you? Are you just that plain rude? Are you retarded?
Regardless of your motivation behind failing to flush, do the rest of us a favor, and get the fuck over it. No one wants to come in and find a fresh (or perhaps not-so-fresh) sample of your stanky-ass, coffee-fueled, unnervingly-colored bladder expulsion – least of all me. You know why people hate bums and crazy cat ladies? That’s right, they both smell like piss. Stop making our bathroom smell like building security just kicked out some transient for living there for three days, or like some two-bit landlord tried to half-heartedly scrub the floor after the “nice old lady” who lived there with 60 cats died unexpectedly last week. Our bathroom smells like piss, and it’s because of you!
What’s even worse is that after you fail to complete all the necessary steps in a successful bathroom excursion, you fail to wash your hands. You’re obviously not concerned with the perceptions or comfort level of the other tenants given the orangy, poisonous-looking deposit left in the bowl of the urinal for the world to see, but really, how does someone walk out of a bathroom without even touching the sink when there’s someone else in there? While you may not have gotten any on you, isn’t there a strong possibility we’ll see each other again? Do you think I’m going to shake your hand? Do you think I’ll risk making my hand all gross because of my faith in your aiming abilities? Hell no, brother! Your clear demonstration of poor bathroom etiquette makes me question in which other routine self-cleaning rituals you’re deficient. I’m less inclined to even want to speak with you. Ever.
I’m tempted to confront you about this, but I’ve made it a policy never to speak to other men in the restroom or make eye contact. There is no conversation you can have with a man in a bathroom that doesn’t feel uncomfortable unless the bar you’re both at posts the sports pages on the wall in front of the urinals. Then it’s okay. Otherwise, I just keep my mouth shut.
So I suppose there’s no resolving this problem. I’m not going to say anything, and you’re clearly not going to raise your level of social awareness and good hygiene above the level of mongoloid. All I can hope is that one day this behavior leads you to a splendid bout of e.coli which will cause you to reconsider everything. A modest hope, sure. But a hope that gets me through the day.
In the meantime, don’t fucking touch me, you disgusting creep.
10 Jun 2008 E Dagger