Dear fellow males,
Please stop talking to me at urinals. Don’t even try to make eye-contact with me. Jesus wept, you’re there for business, not to find a Best Man for your wedding. Stare at the wall. Say nothing. If I am on fire, like literally being consumed by flames at that very moment, you are permitted to mention it to me. BRIEFLY. If the Z-Virus has gotten loose from R&D and my co-workers are roaming the halls, hungry for the sweet gamey tang of human flesh, no, SHUT YOUR GODDAMN MOUTH. Do your thing, zip up, and walk the fuck away. I’ll find out about the zombie thing when I get outside.
Why do I even need to explain this? Where was your father when you were growing up? His job was to teach you two fundamental rules about toiletry: 1) Don’t get it caught in the zip. 2) Don’t run your mouth to another man while you have your JUNK IN YOUR HAND.
Maybe you grew up without a dad, and the shocking erosion in basic toilet ettiquette is indicative of society’s greater decline. But please. For the love of God.