Pissed…Off?
I don’t make a habit of peeing on myself.
Ask anyone.
I learned a long time ago – maybe as early as kindergarten, if not in college – that peeing on yourself is not a good thing to do! And that peeing on the floor of your bedroom because in your drunken haze you thought it was the bathroom is no excuse (really not me, really. Really.)
But there’s a reason why I wear jeans most of the time, and no, it’s not because I’m cool. It’s the same reason why my old beige cargo pants went unworn most of this summer. And the reason is not a latent truth, it’s a fairly obvious truth:
That most modern urinals promote an unacceptable level of urinary splashback.
(Which of course begs the question: What’s an acceptable level of urinary splashback?)
Sure, typically, it’s only a drop or two. Sure, you can orient your crotch under the hand dryer and try to save face while pretending you don’t look like a fool and a pervert. Sure, you can wash your hands with a bit more gusto than usual and let some of that sink water sprinkle your pants “accidentally.” Yeah, fella, blotting THAT water with a paper towel is much, much less frightening for me to witness, despite how comfy your fragile ego feels.
It’s a fact of life: Splashback is well fucking nigh impossible to avoid, despite the amount of care one puts into successfully completing a simple bodily task. Hopefully, this concept is as insignificant as it is disgusting.
I will say that some football stadiums in the Midwest have troughs for men to pee in. Bestial, yet strangely satisfying. And effective in reducing splashback.
But to the point, I’m telling you now, this fresh little pet peeve of mine could have been averted years ago if the urinal engineers had a sitdown with the cargo pant people and some biologists and the three factions fabricated a better way for the human form and machinery to interrelate.
OR I could have used a stall. Meh.
