Allow me to preface my thoughts with a short apology. I am sorry. I do not want to hate you. I have the bladder of a pygmy shrew and you are all such willing receptacles. I should be grateful, I know.
The thing is, urinals, I do hate you. Metal trough, novelty mouth or Bowl Duchamp, I truly despise you all. You are instruments of torture and altars of piss-splattered humiliation. You are the ninth circle of toileting hell.
There are some things in life that just don’t make sense to me and the perverse custom of communal urination is one of them. It has always confused me that society, the same beast that teaches us to keep our shameful appendages covered, expects us to swagger like saloon-entering cowboys into public toilets and whip out our members without question.
“Oh, it’s not a big deal,” people tell me. “Nobody cares,” they assure me. Well I do.
Is it so unreasonable that I like to empty myself in the luxury of a private cubicle? I certainly wouldn’t make the nasty bum-fudge in front of anyone else so why should I be any more willing to dispense lemonade? It is my bodily fluid after all. Surely I have the right to dispose of it in the manner of my own choosing.
Unfortunately, toilet politics are complicated in the strange land beyond the trousered stick-man. I don’t fully understand the rules but I know that loitering in wait for a cubicle invites weird looks that make me feel like Louis Spence at a Millwall game. There must be something wrong with him, I hear them thinking. Perhaps he has an incredibly tiny penis, a micropenis even. How awful for him.
Or perhaps, I hear them think, he is some kind of pervert who simply wants to eavesdrop on our chatter and splatter. He definitely looks like a bit of a fruiter. I mean, what real man wears purple drainpipes?
I blame my suffering on no one but you, urinals. Were men’s toilets all lush sanctuaries lined with individual booths, I would not have this problem. If I could rip you from those yellow-tinged walls and relocate you to your rightful place in a museum of sexual torture then I would be happy. Unfortunately, the vast majority of the male species seems to disagree with me. Not only are most men seemingly immune to your gurgling, soap-cubey wickedness, they seem to actually enjoy the lack of privacy, viewing it as a point of camaraderie.
Well I’m sorry, urinals, but it’s not okay. It’s fucking weird alright?
Your Sincerely
Cubicle User
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