(no subject)
People are amazing.
They really are. If you need a friend, find a person. If you need someone to confide in, find a person. If you need advice, find a person. If you need some comfort, find a [certain type of] person. I can think of no other thing that fills these tasks as beautifully as people; however, despite this general majesty, people are still not good for one thing: peeing.
During a recent visit to a prestigious St. Louis establishment, I found myself under the sudden, steadfast direction of my bladder. This led me to find an immaculate restroom, one shined to the ceiling and decorated by a shiny array of urinals that even the women's restroom would be proud to display. These urinals were mostly occupied, save for two unoccupied spaces: one near me, the other much further down the line. Shoes were also apparent within each stall, one occupied by either a pirate or a relaxing, cross-legged man as I determined from the presence of only one shoe. To avoid looking like a total jackass, I walked confidently to the nearest urinal and stood between two gentleman who appeared to be nearly relieved.
Standing in the middle of three occupied urinals is an awkward situation under any circumstances, surpassed only by the scenario involving a urinal trough, or, even better, the center-of-the-room urinal, one which for a short time graced the men's restrooms at Wrigley. The latter choice is horrible; I think peeing would become increasingly less fun if staring deeply into another man's eyes became an option. Despite the awkward feeling of being crammed closely between these two other men, I was determined to pee, my only comforts being the partitions, two thin strips of vertically oriented steel. I unzipped.
A small team of beavers might as well have built their dam in my pee hole. Things just weren't working. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Two other gentleman entered and made their way to the empty urinals.
By now, I realized that there remained an extremely short amount of time that I could stand there doing nothing before I started looking like a flower. I quickly thumbed through the "How to Pee" files within my mind: Count? No. Hum? Never. Imagine a stream? "Oh! A stream!" I thought to myself, "I just visited one of those a few days ago!" At this point I began comparing the stream I'd just visited, the Gasconade river here in Missouri, to the stream in Alfred Tennyson's "The Brook." I recited the opening lines . . . I come from haunts of coot and hern / I make a sudden sally . . . "What the hell is coot?" I thought, as I soon realized it might have been the instant gratification that came as the flood gates finally opened! It was positively incredible. I really wished those two gentleman who I'd originally stood between hadn't already finished, washed and exited. Had they been there, I might have started a celebratory conversation.
I wasn't sure why poetry recitation worked, but it did. I was nearly done and noticed that one of the two gentleman who'd entered during my foray, one down near the end of the line, was still standing there and trying to get things to work. I washed my hands. He was still there.
As I motioned the laser-operated paper towel dispenser, I thought about going over to ask him if he knew any poetry. Instead, I thought "Ha! What a wuss," and shuffled out.
They really are. If you need a friend, find a person. If you need someone to confide in, find a person. If you need advice, find a person. If you need some comfort, find a [certain type of] person. I can think of no other thing that fills these tasks as beautifully as people; however, despite this general majesty, people are still not good for one thing: peeing.
During a recent visit to a prestigious St. Louis establishment, I found myself under the sudden, steadfast direction of my bladder. This led me to find an immaculate restroom, one shined to the ceiling and decorated by a shiny array of urinals that even the women's restroom would be proud to display. These urinals were mostly occupied, save for two unoccupied spaces: one near me, the other much further down the line. Shoes were also apparent within each stall, one occupied by either a pirate or a relaxing, cross-legged man as I determined from the presence of only one shoe. To avoid looking like a total jackass, I walked confidently to the nearest urinal and stood between two gentleman who appeared to be nearly relieved.
Standing in the middle of three occupied urinals is an awkward situation under any circumstances, surpassed only by the scenario involving a urinal trough, or, even better, the center-of-the-room urinal, one which for a short time graced the men's restrooms at Wrigley. The latter choice is horrible; I think peeing would become increasingly less fun if staring deeply into another man's eyes became an option. Despite the awkward feeling of being crammed closely between these two other men, I was determined to pee, my only comforts being the partitions, two thin strips of vertically oriented steel. I unzipped.
A small team of beavers might as well have built their dam in my pee hole. Things just weren't working. Five seconds. Ten. Twenty. Two other gentleman entered and made their way to the empty urinals.
By now, I realized that there remained an extremely short amount of time that I could stand there doing nothing before I started looking like a flower. I quickly thumbed through the "How to Pee" files within my mind: Count? No. Hum? Never. Imagine a stream? "Oh! A stream!" I thought to myself, "I just visited one of those a few days ago!" At this point I began comparing the stream I'd just visited, the Gasconade river here in Missouri, to the stream in Alfred Tennyson's "The Brook." I recited the opening lines . . . I come from haunts of coot and hern / I make a sudden sally . . . "What the hell is coot?" I thought, as I soon realized it might have been the instant gratification that came as the flood gates finally opened! It was positively incredible. I really wished those two gentleman who I'd originally stood between hadn't already finished, washed and exited. Had they been there, I might have started a celebratory conversation.
I wasn't sure why poetry recitation worked, but it did. I was nearly done and noticed that one of the two gentleman who'd entered during my foray, one down near the end of the line, was still standing there and trying to get things to work. I washed my hands. He was still there.
As I motioned the laser-operated paper towel dispenser, I thought about going over to ask him if he knew any poetry. Instead, I thought "Ha! What a wuss," and shuffled out.