You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.
The Men’s room.
Go to any bar in any town and chances are the men’s room is an EPA quarantine zone. It’s a gigantic, petri dish of human excrement clinging to floors and toilet seats and dripping from walls.
It’s as if a urinating Jack the Ripper was set loose upon the Lavatories of America and created a fermenting crime scene.
If you are lucky, your men’s room has a urinal with a partition. This affords you a bit of privacy and often provides for some good reading and opportunity to employ skilled men or women for services rendered.
If you are less lucky, you enter a Men’s Room that is a desecrated pit of muck and papertowels. It is usually illuminated by a single light bulb hanging over a broken mirror. The filth makes you question whether Big Foot has been using this bar as his nocturnal saskwatch box. This Men’s Room is the cover story for Tia Juana jail Illustrated.
If you have rolled snake eyes and your luck has gone the way of Herman Cain, then you enter the barn yard zone of the metallic trough.
This is the ultimate insult of the sexes.
Women get perfume and pink and puffy clouds. At least that’s the way I envision it.
Men? Not so much. It’s as if we are farm animals and because of our standardized external plumbing, we can stand in line, at attention, and release the urinary hounds.
The trough is an effective way to eliminate a large amount of body waste simultaneously, in a communal setting. But it is certainly anything but civilized.
What’s it like? It’s strangers with their flies open, standing shoulder to shoulder. These poor men staring into a dark cinder block wall of oblivion. Behind you a horde of men chortling and making barnyard sounds. Below you, a constant flowing river swirling into a collective drain.
Why are men still forced to urinate like farm animals that end up in your frying pan on Sunday mornings?
I guess that’s just one of those things that only men will know and live to ponder.
And that is crazy.