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

In this Episode: Toilet Temperatures, and the superfluous Butt-Gasket.

As I mentioned in "Merton's Komedy Korner" a few days ago, there's really no feeling in the world as simultaneously comforting and unsettling as plunking down on a pre-warmed public toilet seat. On the one cheek, when the braced-for shock of all-too-familiar arctic pressure against the glutes turns out not to arrive, it's a blessing. On the other...when that's only due to the fact that some other dude's hairy, pimple-pitted posterior has very recently cozied up the shit-ring to a toasty 98.6°, this is (ironically enough) cold comfort.

After recently expressing this sentiment to some close friends (close enough to discuss restroom habits with, anyway), their reactions ranged from, "That's life," to "EeWWwWWww! You use PUBLIC restrooms?" to, "I never use a non-private toilet. Period." Interestingly, all of the aforementioned retorts came courtesy of women. I find this unsurprising for a handful of over-arching reasons.

Artist's rendering of how women
feel about toilets in general.

First, it's no secret that women tend to be "daintier" than gents when it comes to the overall waste-excretion process. I suspect this is largely due to the fact that their genitals are a delicate, inward-facing bloom of pH so fragile that any foreign introductions elevate the risk of infection, whereas ours are sticky-outy pneumatic protrusions it's often possible to usurp furniture with (especially on the way to our morning piss).

Also, women are traditionally required to sit for both flavors of the elimination binary, whereas men are required to park it only for the second. Therefore, women can afford to expend the additional energy required to "hover" for the quicker trip. In contrast, men (though typically possessing an increased muscle mass) lack both the desire and the capability to "float" in mid-air while dropping a deuce. Not only does the fear of not being perfectly centered when the bomb-bay doors release (and therefore risking a floor-flopper) keep us in contact, but even during such times when crip rails are present and the elbows can be locked, the mid-air dook-drop is simply not worth the effort.

"Oh, JESUS. Hold on..."

Lastly, most women seem to possess a quite frankly shocking level of conscious control over their bowel-blasts. The idea of being able to choose precisely when and where one purges the pucker-pump is a notion so alien to men as to be nearly incomprehensible. Simply deciding that your chocolate choo-choo is on the sort of arrival timetable that would have made Mussolini beam with pride is one accomplishment gentlemen have been historically horrible at mastering. When women say, "I'll hold it until I get home," it's as confusing to the male ear as if they'd said, "No, sweetie...let ME change the oil. You just relax and get ready for your blowjob."

So, simply making up your mind that dropping off the kids at the pool is a task that can wait until you're damn well good and ready? This is something the vast majority of men honestly can't relate to. On the contrary, when most fellows receive the signal from the cellar that a delivery is imminent, we typically have mere minutes to race to the nearest loading dock before the driver decides we're not coming, and simply offloads the shipment right there in the driveway.

Which is a metaphor that just gets more and more
appropriate the longer you spend thinking about it.

In that (mud)vein, men have developed the ability to accept the urgency of their imminent evacuation, and seek "any port in a storm" relief with due haste. For instance, in my case, the inside of the public restroom stall at my place of employ and I have seen quite a bit of each other. Sure, I'd love as much as anyone to be able to skip off home to take care of my less-than-professional business. I just don't have the luxury, given a twenty-minute commute in either direction (plus time logged undergoing the actual porcelain-surfing itself), to say nothing of the increased expenditure in gasoline. And honestly, I'm okay with that.

And really, why not? I guarantee you the bowls at my work are cleaned more often. I mean, I'm hardly an animal, but I'm not Felix Unger, either. I probably only get to my own throne once a month or so. The crappers at my work are disinfected daily. So, I don't try to hold it. To do so would be a fools' errand with zero real-world benefit. And besides...I'm aware that the penalty for trying to is searing, stabbing intestinal discomfort at best, and an even more uncomfortable conversation with the Human Resources Manager at worst.

"Come on in. No...I'm not going to ask you to have a seat, if that's okay."

Due to this fact, it's partially by choice, and partially by inevitable circumstance that men tend to relax a little when it comes to the ol' dumpage. We realize it's gonna happen whether it's convenient or not, so, we know there's no point in trying to rush things, either. Might as well grab a magazine and make an afternoon of it, right? Hell, I still think if you added up the amount of time my old man spent in the shitter vs. doing damn near everything else during my formative years, you'd realize that the mirror on the front of the medicine cabinet saw more of him than I did growing up. I think I said "hello" to him an even six times during both terms of the Reagan administration.

"Aw, nuts, Pop...I was hoping to bathe some time this month."

Still, there are always exceptions that prove the rule. Some guys, despite the stereotype, still blanch at the idea of exposing the delicate flesh of their precious heinies to the barbaric, unknown vagaries of anything so common as a community toilet seat. And to them, I would suggest bypassing the door that says "MEN" on it, and instead entering the plumbing-rich enclosure bearing the icon of the sphere-skulled humanoid figure whose waist sports a stiffly-flared trapezoid, but hey. Maybe that's just me.

For those fancy lads (and I'm looking right at YOU, Howie Mandel), some shared comfort stations feature a Butt-Gasket dispenser. You know, the thing that keeps THESE things all origami'd inside:

"Hi! I'm only slightly less useful than testicles on a teapot!"

These things kinda piss me off.

I mean, any guy who would sit there mincing around the bowl while he positions the twee li'l shit-shield just so? He's not only fruitier than Carmen Miranda's hat, he's also completely defeating the purpose. Because to put this thing in place, you more or less have to touch the seat. So, right there, you're picking up whatever exotic fungoo you're trying to avoid. And you're doing it with your HANDS, you dumbass. Jesus, think about all the things you use your HANDS for during the day (answering the phone, picking your nose, eating, eating the stuff you picked out of your nose while answering the phone, etc.). Then, consider the things you use your ass for (sitting on and...well, that's it). Clearly, if anything is spawning on the seat, you want it on your ASS, which is just getting packed safely back into your Dockers immediately after the big show. That, as opposed to your HANDS...which come into contact with 10,000 times as many objects in any given day.

...7,846 of which can be seen here.

On top of it, the fucking things seem to be entirely coated with Stik-Fast™ Brand Quick-Setting Butt-Mucilage, because they adhere to your cheeks like cling wrap on a casserole within milliseconds of you sitting down on 'em. So when it's time to get up, you have to do the rock-n'-peel maneuver, where you rotate your pelvis, and disengage the paper section-by-section from your turd-cutter, making sure it stays down when you yourself get up. Reason being, if you've followed the illustrated directions and put the teardrop-shaped area inside the bowl so the water catches it and pulls it in when you flush? And there's still even a TINY BIT that's still attached to your ass when you stand? You're going to hoist the shit-and-piss-lousy center-wad up and out of the bowl, thereby hauling all of the lovely dung and urine currently caked on it into a position where it can release its drippy payload directly into your pants...to say zero of all of the seat-touching you're doing with your hands as you peel the paper off of your dupa. And, once again, you've come full-circle back into "defeating the purpose" territory.

"Dear me...That is as ironic as it is unfortunate. Oh, well. Can't be helped."

Furthermore, even when these little paper-patches work as intended (read: never) they're still COMPLETELY FUCKING USELESS. They're nothing more than a placebo provided more for perceived peace-of-mind than anything resembling actual health benefit. It's time you get a load of the raw-data reality: Despite the fact that the anti-bacterial gel people have created a tidy little cottage industry (propelled entirely by the fear of those frankfurter-sized CGI microbes from the ads, writhing in orgiastic ecstasy all over every single surface in the universe), you'll never be able to completely get rid of the wee beasties. They've always been there, and they'll always BE there. They were here long before humans were, and they'll be around to slowly digest what's left of our bodies after we're gone. Period.

And that's really okay. Because yeah...while plenty of pathogens are revolting little assholes that can give you any number of horrifying diseases, most are completely innocuous, or even beneficial. Your body has natural defenses against them, and it's developing more all the time. That is, unless you're boiling yourself in Purell every eleven minutes, in which case they're even MORE likely to get you eventually...because your system hasn't been properly exposed to them, and hasn't had the opportunity to develop the necessary microscopic counter-measures it would have otherwise.

AAAAAGH NO NO NONONO GET 'EM OFF
GET 'EM OFF GETEMOFFME AAAGGGHH

Yes, indeed. At any given moment, countless germs are swarming all over every square inch of your epidermis, and there ain't a goddamn thing you can do about it, Friend. But, hey...if it makes you feel better to put a micrometer-thick layer of 78% transparent tissue paper down on the seat before you put your ass on it? Feel free. I s'pose you're not technically HURTING anyone. Maybe you're cock-blocking the quintillions of micro-organisms that were looking forward to harmlessly banging the living shit out of the quintillions that have spawned on the surface of your bum in the last 45 seconds or so, but I have a feeling they'll all get over it.

"Thanks a lot, you dick. There goes our whole fuckin' weekend."

In the end (ha, ha!) just remember this: Even in the face (HA, HA!) of scare tactics employed by corporations who feed their bottom line (HA-HA!!) as they feed your paranoia, there is no empirical evidence to show that ANYONE has ever caught ANY bacterial or viral infection from a goddamned public toilet seat. The whole reason those rumors got started in the first place was because Penis McFuckalot came home with the clap from all those three-vag'ini lunches with his secretary, and he had to come up with a big ol' fat lie to cover his ass (HA-HA!!!) with his wife.

In fact, the only way you're gonna catch anything from a public toilet is if you sit down before the previous tenant of the stall has had a chance to stand up. And if you're the sort of person this happens to regularly, chances are, snagging a virulent strain of good ol' Cambodian Cock-Rot is probably the least of your worries.