Two Minutes Hate: Urinal Talkers

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.

12 Responses to “Two Minutes Hate: Urinal Talkers”

  1. I wonder where this came from. *laughs*

  2. Disco Stu says:

    And, if by some egregious error you do make eye contact, don’t wink, smile, or do anything beyond break said eye contact IMMEDIATELY and contain your attention to the matter at hand.

  3. mimetic74 says:

    you are such a hetero!

  4. Disco Stu says:

    MK, hope you washed those hands before you clapped ’em.
    Also, on all things scatalogical, I think there’s an essay-worth of material on those who wash their hands _before_ versus _after_ the deed.

  5. Disco Stu says:

    Speaking out of my arse on all things anthropological: it may be related to your position on the pointy end of the height bell-curve. Tall folk like us can potentially see more of what nearby compatriots are doing at a urinal (not that we’d necessarily want to, mind). The need to chat is then a levelling device from the shorter men-folk, an effort to trigger potential shy-bladder syndrome and thus neutralising any perceived authority derived from height.
    Or maybe some lads out there just think you have friendly, welcoming eyes.

    • You could write a book on this, Disco. Appear on the Dr. Phil Show. Release your own brand of cologne. Go crazy and end your days with tissue boxes on your feet screaming about urinal anthropology.
      I can see it!

  6. Judd says:

    MATE. Loosen the ol’ starfish, I wasn’t coming on to you or anything. “Let me put my love into you” was just the song that was playing when I came in.

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