Urinalysis: Chick Edition

The Ladies Room, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the female latrine. Our five hour mission: to explore popular topics of gossip, to seek out relief from bladder pressure and the people annoying us wherever we may be, to boldly go where no man has gone before (except when we need their strength to use the toilet plunger).

As I understand it, there seems to be some “mystery” surrounding the bathroom habits of modern females. I say modern because I refuse to contemplate anything having to deal with poop before we all had our own indoor plumbing. This “mystery” is according to guys and deals with mostly with why we go to the bathroom in groups of two or more and why we take so long. Personally, I don’t find it strange that I sometimes like to partake in group peeing. It’s not as though we all sit on one giant toilet and pee simultaneously.

Let me start with the basics. Females are biologically programmed (in our brains) to be the more social sex of the human race. I’m not sure if this actually has anything to do with our social hour pee time; I just thought I’d throw that out there. So while the male brain portion controlling sexual impulses is 2.5 times larger and thus consumes most male thoughts, we women are thinking “gee, we’d really love to chat right now and have some good old social interaction” a majority of the time. This seems to have spilled over into our bathroom habits.

Another thing to remember is that women have to pee a lot more than most men. I schedule pee time into my day. I know that after a certain amount of time I will have to go pee, no matter what, so I really hope there will be a bathroom that I can use wherever I may be (no, I do not need to take medicine for this). When my sister recently consulted me about what time she should arrive at the airport I told her to have enough allotted amount of time to go pee before you get on the plane. No one enjoys peeing on planes; I’m still afraid that when you flush the toilet you’ll get sucked right out of the plane at 35,000 feet, never mind how tiny those things are.

According to my scientific research mentioned above, when you combine the social nature and physical makeup of the female bladder you get the abnormally long group trips to the bathroom. The basics are simple, moving beyond and further in depth is not so simple. Now, about that, let me go pee real fast before I get into it . . . .

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.

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.

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

In this episode: The Over-social Urinal Partner.

For most people, working in an office setting does not allow much time for silent reflection. Between phone calls, emails, cubicle "pop-ins" and, for 18% of the American workforce, actual work, it hardly leaves time for quiet reflection.

Which is why trips to the bathroom should be cherished. With just a ween in hand and a ceramic tile wall to stare at, that precious :20 - 2:00 (depending on coffee intake) is all yours to ponder, meditate and muse… away from the distractions and stress of modern-day office minutiae.

That is, until that guy pulls in to the stall next to you. And at that point, "me-time" is over and your urinal turns into The Tonight Show couch.

(Above) Quiet time.

Flapping his gums before his stream even hits the pink toilet mint, he starts chatting you up, acting like it's the office Christmas party instead of what it is:

2 guys with their cocks out, standing next to each other with maybe a foot separating them. A 2"-thick, 3' foot tall metal barrier does not change this fact.

I realize proper office etiquette dictates that any eye contact you make with a co-worker MUST be immediately followed-up with no less than :30 of inane "I hate Mondays" chatter. That's cool. I'm generally social and affable.

But when my dick's out, please, just shut the fuck up. We'll catch-up later at the paper towel dispenser.

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

Exploring the States of Matter with Poo

Solid: Molecules are packed tightly together in a rigid structure. Has a definite volume and resists deformation.

Achieved in poo form by: Consuming a high-fiber diet rich in leafy vegetables and not having any fun.

Liquid: Molecules are held together loosely. Only has definite volume under uniform temperature and pressure. Moves freely.

Achieved in poo form by: Eating a high fat diet rich in wholesome animal products; especially the bacon explosion. For the lactose intolerant, try consuming lactose.

Gas: Molecules are only held together by the money they make on tour, and no longer have any real relationships with each other. Volume is completely determined by the containing vessel.

Achieved in poo form by: A diet rich in low grade lagers and Phaseolus vulgaris. For the layperson, this means Schlitz & Beans.

Plasma: A form of ionized gas containing a large proportion of free electrons. The main component of stars.

Achieved in poo form by: Buffalo Sauce, and lots of it.

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

The Inexplicable Signage

I must confess...When it comes to work bathroom stuff, certain things should just be private. I don't want to know what you do in there any more than you want to know what I do in there. However, with the exception of certain agreed-upon deviances (such as peeing on the seat, or smearing doody on the walls), it's pretty much all the same stuff...To the point where we're more or less able to break it down to a very short numbered list. Number of items? Two.

Or, at least, that's all I THOUGHT that's all there were.

To wit: I saw this sign in the bathroom at my place of employ the other day:



It makes me think on several levels.

First, why is it only en Español? This company is quite progressive. They don't profile. The same rules apply to everyone in every other context. So, I'm puzzled.

Second, is this really a problem?!? Apparently, it must be, or there wouldn't need to be a sign posted. I mean, if you're yakking away on a handset, there's the echo to consider. Not to mention the fact that if you're in a stall, other people will just think you're talking to yourself, which is even weirder. And personally, I can't imagine having a nice, light conversation with a friend or family member while there is actual excrement actively purging itself from my digestive system. I just think some things should be done alone...and by "alone," I mean without engaging another person in any way, shape, or form, including on the phone. Give it some thought: Would YOU want to have a spirited chat with a pal, pretending not to notice the faint sounds of background-flushing urinals even as your buddy keeps pausing to grunt? Maybe that's just me.

Third...For once, I'm kinda glad I don't speak Spanish. Or else I wouldn't have been able to snap that photo on my phone's camera.

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

The Miserly Toilet Paper Dispenser

The miserly toilet paper dispenser allocates butt tissue one 1/2-ply square at a time, as if the company's fiscal well-being depended on meticulous oversight of employee anal hygiene overhead.

Of course, maybe this wouldn't be so bad if workplace toilet paper didn't immediately dissolve upon direct contact with your rectal cavity.

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

By Merton Sussex

Study #3: Cocoa Choo-Choo

We've all been there, each of us. There we are, sitting on the bowl, and minding our own business...when suddenly, the big, heavy (and always squeaky) swinging door opens up, and someone else walks into the room. Just strooolls on in like they hold a deed to the joint.

This, without fail, makes me uncomfortable.

Now, I'm not one of these pee-shy types who can't drain my vein in the public restroom. I'm a man, after all. We can, and do, pretty much pee anywhere. It's a biologically instinctual holdover from when we were still living short, violent lives on the Serengeti. It's border definition. I mean, why do you think they call it "writing your name in the snow"? You're essentially marking your territory.

But dropping a deuce? That's another matter entirely. When loaf-pinchin', I like a little privacy. Maybe that's strange, but it's sort of the way I am. Or, maybe it's everyone. Hard to say. The nature of the thing means it's not something I necessarily discuss with others. But that being said, I'm willing to bet that if any of us were dropping the kids off at the pool at HOME and a stranger walked in to nonchalantly pee in the sink, our brown-eye is clamping shut like a vise. I don't care if this is the initial sit-down after a beer and taco bender, your starfish is suddenly going to work overtime to hold in the tide of dung at all costs.

In my experience, there are several reasons for this.

One: Having a nice whizz is easy. It just involves whipping out the unit, and letting go. Aaah. No problem. But extruding a dook is a slightly more involved process. Out of necessity, you must partially disrobe, which means you're essentially half-naked. At work. Which isn't the norm. At least, most places I'VE worked, it hasn't been. So that's sort of uncomfortable to begin with.

Two: Piss is doesn't really have much of an odor when fresh. It just sort of comes out, and then drains into the bottom of the urinal unobtrusively. Scat, on the other hand...Is pretty much the extreme end of the stinky spectrum. Hence the tried and true expression: "That smells like SHIT!" to indicate that something has a foul odor. So, the moment it starts to slither its way out of your dirt-star, your immediate sphere becomes tainted with about the foulest odor imaginable all at once. And, being that most of us try to AVOID smelling nasty at work, this can be a bit tough to deal with from a psychological standpoint.

Three: Urine doesn't have much of a sound. If anything, it sort of trickles, like a babbling yellow brook. A brook full of salts and acids, sure. But it's not an embarrassing sound. In fact, some people buy little machines or fountains that produce that sound to help them relax. That being said, whosoever amongst us has been able to tell PRIOR to copping a squat what sort of borborygmal horrors awaited them upon attempting to empty the plumbing? Call them what you want: "Bronx cheers," "raspberries," or maybe even the classically Carlin-esque, "bi-labial fricative," but they're all just phew-phemisms for the same thing: Farts. And possibly even big, juicy ones that rattle the windows. Of course, because the nerve endings in our colons are slightly less-sensitive than Josef Mengele, we can't tell the gas pockets from legitimate boxcars on the Turd Express. So, you could be straining, sweating, bearing down and trying to expel what feels like a pineapple; but if it really winds up just being methane, you'd better believe it's coming out with all of the force you've seen fit to push with. And of course, the porcelain basin is a perfect natural amplifier. So, you'll probably freeze, and vainly hope that, because the bathroom is empty otherwise, nobody else heard it. But in reality, the guy who was in there just ran out to alert his manager two floors away to call the Bomb Squad. And naturally, by the time he gets there, said manager has already had them en route to your stall since before the fart itself even tapers off to that little stuttering mosquito-whine at the end.

Four: Mess. A wee-wee just involves a shake and tuck when done. Poo requires cleanup. Gotta get in there, and restore order once Shitty Shitty Bang Bang motors down Hershey Highway. And it's not like most companies these days can afford to spring for the good paper. Nope...Chances are you're attempting to wipe with quarter-ply "RuffStuff™ 95% Recycled Wood Pulp Bathroom Tissue" that not only feels like 40-grit on your tenderest of tissue, but is thinner than Sarah Palin's résumé. So there's always the risk you'll break through while attempting to scour out the really persistent dingleberries, and wind up giving yourself an impomptu rectal exam.

Five: A good colon-expulsion takes awhile sometimes. That's why so many people bring a newspaper: we've got an awful lot of Play-Doh™ to wring out of those puckered little Fun Factories of ours, and we might as well multi-task. And, when at work, you never know what your excretory habits cost the company in terms of lost productivity. And who needs that kind of pressure? I don't. So no matter what, I try my best not to involve solids in any of my workplace restroom trips. I'm not always successful, but I AM always diligent. This is because I enjoy my co-workers. But not in such a way that I can shit comfortably while they're less than 10 feet away. At least, not when one or the other of us isn't paying for the privilege.

Six: Public toilets are just that...public. And, yeah. I know That the Center For Using Government Grants to Study Ridiculous Things has determined that the toilet seat in the average restroom is cleaner than the inside of your mouth, and that the only way to catch something from it is if you sit down before the last guy gets up. I don't care. I'm no Howie Mandel germophobe, but I still don't know who got here before me. However, due to the fact that the pubes on the seat are the approximate thickness and color of industrial power cable, I'm guessing someone of at least Eastern European extraction, if not full-on Fertile Crescent.

So, for these reasons and more, I like to play it like the dude from American Pie and shit at home whenever possible. It's not always a possibility, but I feel it's important to have realistic goals in life.

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

By Blaine Fridley

Study #2: Three Stall Monte

Upon entering the men's room you notice all three of this particular bathroom's stalls are open. Which do you choose to avoid a painfully embarrassing moment for any co-worker who enters the bathroom shortly thereafter and needs to blast a dookie really, REALLY bad?

A) The stall on the left
B) The stall on the right

C) The middle stall

D) A or B, but not C

E) All of the above

Answer: D, you fucking dolt. If you answered differently, please remove yourself from the classroom known as life because you just failed a pre-kindergarden level test of unwritten but painfully obvious societal norms. When you have a 3-stall situation, you do not, under any circumstance, take the middle one. This is not Hollywood Squares (Though my fecal matter is a marked improvement over the comedy stylings of Bruce Vilanch) and you're not taking Shadoe Stevens to block.

In a situation such as this, the middle stall is the all important buffer stall. The reasons for a buffer stall are plentiful, stench among them. But more importantly, the buffer stall allows you to pinch a loaf without modifying your regular routine (i.e. silencing your usual array of guttural noises, grunts and lamaze breathing techniques used during fecal labor in exchange for those awkward, self-conscious "whisper grunts").

The buffer stall also helps ease the tension many people feel when pooping in places other than their home crapper. When you take the middle stall you add an exponential amount of stress and disgust in the mind of the already timid workplace pooper. It's bad enough being forced to drop the deuce at your place of business, but then add the fact that your co-worker is wiping his ass a mere Larry Craig wide stance away while he gets a front row seat to listen to your every brown-eye burp and well...shit man, that's just fucking nerve-wracking. So, like, stop doing that and stuff.

Urinalysis Archive:

Study #1: Reverse Hand-wash Guy

Urinalysis:

A multi-part study of the behaviors, codes, customs and characters of the workplace restroom.

By Blaine Fridley

Study #1: Reverse Handwash Guy

For centuries, one simple tenet of basic restroom hygiene has remained constant: Wash your hands after you go to the bathroom. 

Reverse Handwash Guy turns this paradigm upside down, washing his hands before he goes to the bathroom.

He does so, apparently, to keep from spreading germs and bacteria from his hands to his clean, pristine, hermetically-sealed dick. His shimmering-clean cock is kept in such a magnificently salubrious state that he scrubs up to the elbows (as if he's about to perform open-heart surgery) before touching it.