Urinalysis: a multi-part study of the behaviors, codes, customs and characters of the workplace restroom

In this episode: The Hawk-Spitter

Gentlemen - back me up on this one. Because most of the ladies to whom I attempt to describe this phenomenon choose to assume that I'm lying.

Here's how it goes down: you're in a public restroom. You're washing your hands, peeing, having a sit-down...doesn't matter. At some point, another fellow enters, and avails himself of a nearby (but, of course, never adjacent) urinal. At first, he undergoes the standard operating procedure: he unzips, frees his meat-valve, and begins relieving bladder pressure. He may tilt his head back, sigh in relief, or even close his eyes. Possibly all three. All of this, I understand. I've had to piss like a whole Triple Crowns' worth of racehorces before, and when you finally get to experience release, it can be delightful.

However. What I do NOT understand is what ALSO happens 8 out of ten times. Because while it's not a 100% certainty, it does happen FAR more often than not: Once the urine stream begins, your fellow peer will lean over, look straight down, make a noise like a septic truck sucking weeks-old excrement from the very bedrock of the earth, and with a hearty "PTUI!," release a silver/pearl glob of deep-dredged mucus into the porcelain basin.

"Bblblblleebblleehh."

For the LIFE of me, I cannot grasp the reasoning for this behavior. But it happens, and constantly. What's more, the urinal hawk-spit seems to cross socio-economic strata, race, creed, sexual orientation and national origin lines. If a man is standing in front of a urinal relieving himself, it seems there is an almost life-dependent compulsion for him to hork a giant, glistening lung-cookie into the drain. Sometimes it launches like a little snot-rocket all at once, and sometimes the center-of-gravity payload sits and sways, pendulous at the end of a long, tacky chain of stretched glycoprotein. Doesn't even matter who else happens to be in there. No matter what, you can almost bet it will happen. And I just don't fuckin' get it.

Total disclosure: I am a man, and I am intimately familiar with the seemingly-nonsensical reasoning behind why we do ridiculous shit that seems to have no real logical impetus. Whether survival instinct, biological imperative or simple comfort repetition, I can easily grasp the push behind the vast majority of the crazy quirks that make NON-males scratch their pretty, perfumed heads and say "what in the hell was THAT all about?" But the piss/hawk-spit continues to baffle the shit out of me.

"I fucking gave up YEARS ago."

I have formulated a few theories, but much like me in a bathroom, they don't seem to be very successful at holding any water:

1) Balance: It could be that the male soul strives for a yin and a yang in all things, so they spit as they pee in order to achieve the balance of fluid exiting both ends simultaneously. I tend to reject this because there simply can't be that many closeted Zen Buddhists out there.

2) Sport: Men love games of skill and chance. So, it could be that the piss-person is trying to pull a Ghostbusters, and "cross the streams." He may even award himself a point if the sputum intersects with the urine as each goes to its reward.

3) Comfort: Society expects a certain standard of good behavior, and men often find this difficult to uphold. So, perhaps the piss'spit is a "letting the guard down" of sorts. "I'm in a bathroom," thinks the male brain. "The façade doesn't need to be maintained in here, amongst my people. So, I might as well go ahead and do all of the rude stuff I'm not supposed to do in front of polite folks. After all, NOTHING polite happens in here. Hell, I might as well scratch my balls while I'm at it."

4) Convenience: "There's a porcelain basin there. It's designed to catch fluids. I might as WELL spit in it. It's RIGHT THERE. That's nicer than doing it on the sidewalk, I guess."

5) Instinct. Years ago, men chewed. It was not an uncommon sight to see spittoons at the ends of bars and on public sidewalks. As a fellow's mouth filled up with noxious tar-juice, he had to get rid of it somehow, and the spittoons were there to keep things somewhat tidy. These days, fewer folks are willing to queue up and say, "Why yes, Mr. Global Tobacco Conglomerate! Despite the federally-mandated warnings on your product packaging, I certainly would like to sign up for certain oral cancer in exchange for a mild stimulant effect!" Nonetheless, the urge to spit could be a compulsive holdover, much in the same way your dog turns around in a circle three or four times in order to flatten the non-existent grass on the couch before laying down to watch "American Idol" with your wife.

"I love it when Randy calls me 'Dawg.' Because I totally am, right?"

No matter what, the rationale behind the urinal-spit eludes me. Hell, unless I'm at the dentist, the urge to spit period is a head-scratcher for me. Best I can tell, men spit in urinals mid-pee because...men spit in urinals mid-pee. That's probably the truest explanation. But that doesn't really satisfy my insatiably-curious nature; my childlike wonder in asking "why?"

I guess part of it is also that I also keep coming back to something my Grandpa once told me: "If you expectorate with the ladies, don't expect to rate with the ladies."

Good thing most of you do it in the one room they're not allowed to go into.