Modern Conveniences.
It's 4:00 on a Friday. My plane leaves in 30 mins and there's a line for the counter. I'm dragging a suitcase and laptop bag because the airline charges $25 each way for the audacity of checking luggage. I make my way to the bathroom, because it's slightly less hellish than the infested grotto that is the airplane bathroom. I make it to the mens room and am confronted with a dilemma. I could use a urinal, and just piss, or I could go full monty and have a marvelous abdominal spasm and get it all out at once. Due to the low groaning and moans that reach me through the tiled floor like a dungeon of the undead, I head for a urinal. So, I don't know if you have ever tried to balance luggage and a full fucking backpack full of crap while pissing, but it is rather less fun than it sounds like. If it doesn't sound like fun it at all, then it means it is less fun than that. As you're trying to line up with a bunch of other guys with their dicks out and avoid pissing all over your fucking self wile not looking at them, yourself, or anything at all in the entire fucking universe while balancing everything you own, you take the time to contemplate what a private hell-hole your life is. While you are doing that you manage to piss every-fucking-where. Your dick has spontaneously transformed into one of medusa's more troublesome braids and managed to fucking soak your shoes, your pants and pretty much everyfucking thing else in a 3-foot cube area. Great. After carefully avoiding sewing your most tender area to place a metal goddamn railroad track of death (Which some fucking dumb ass figured would be the perfect place for such a damn contraption, the same way we use fucking fire rings to seal over our buttholes; or we would if we were dumb as hell). So, you manage to avoid fucking castrating yourself (which you have to do EVERY FUCKING DAY) and...well, the fucker won't flush. Know why? It's 'advanced'. And by 'advanced' I mean it has a sensor that is supposed to flush when you walk away. Know when it does flush? Here's a clue: Flip a coin. Heads it'll flush in the middle of you pissing. Tails: It will never, ever, ever flush no matter what you do. Those are your two options. Deal.
So you make it to the sink, dragging with you approximately 80 lbs of laptops, suitcases, clothes, man-bags and whatever else gay ass crap you have. Yo wave your hand under the sink, because, you know, too advanced to have shit like fucking handles. A half-assed foam of soap dribbles out of the soap dispenser like Ron Jeremey's 80-year old cock, nowhere near your hand. As you move your hand towards the soap, the water shoots out for approximately .00001 seconds, just long enough to try and get some water, and fail miserably. Now you have the decaying remains of premature semen and a few drops of water in the sink where your hands wait like hungry predators, in a desperate attempt to wash themselves. As you fruitlessly wave your hands around and around the basin, nothing happens. Finally, you resort to smacking the fuck out of the faucet to try and make it produce water like an abused cow''s protienless udder. After a few (dozen) tries you get somewhat less moisture on your hand than you would have had if you'd just been spitting all over the place, and you 'wash' your hands. At this point, 20 mins have gone by and you've said 'fuck it'. The soap is a long lost cause well past worth even considering. It's a fucking miracle your hands have collected enough moisture to be considered 'damp', and that could be because of the sweat your newfound nervous tick has wrought. It is time to dry your hands and escape. There are no paper towels. You'd swear there never were except the 'bin' that could hold, at max capacity, about 3-4 used paper towels has been so overfilled you'd swear it was a fucking handwashing bukkake that had happened over the course of a few thousand years. Even approaching the ridiculously small hand-drying station would require a commitment from a full team of fucking sherpas and possibly a few dozen oxygen tanks. So: Fuck it, you move to the door, desperate to escape and hoping you make it on board your plane in time. Your hands are wet and piss-stained, and you have lost all sense of respect for yourself. Because some drooling damn moron thought it'd be a great fucking idea if we didn't have shit like fucking handles anymore.
So you make it to the sink, dragging with you approximately 80 lbs of laptops, suitcases, clothes, man-bags and whatever else gay ass crap you have. Yo wave your hand under the sink, because, you know, too advanced to have shit like fucking handles. A half-assed foam of soap dribbles out of the soap dispenser like Ron Jeremey's 80-year old cock, nowhere near your hand. As you move your hand towards the soap, the water shoots out for approximately .00001 seconds, just long enough to try and get some water, and fail miserably. Now you have the decaying remains of premature semen and a few drops of water in the sink where your hands wait like hungry predators, in a desperate attempt to wash themselves. As you fruitlessly wave your hands around and around the basin, nothing happens. Finally, you resort to smacking the fuck out of the faucet to try and make it produce water like an abused cow''s protienless udder. After a few (dozen) tries you get somewhat less moisture on your hand than you would have had if you'd just been spitting all over the place, and you 'wash' your hands. At this point, 20 mins have gone by and you've said 'fuck it'. The soap is a long lost cause well past worth even considering. It's a fucking miracle your hands have collected enough moisture to be considered 'damp', and that could be because of the sweat your newfound nervous tick has wrought. It is time to dry your hands and escape. There are no paper towels. You'd swear there never were except the 'bin' that could hold, at max capacity, about 3-4 used paper towels has been so overfilled you'd swear it was a fucking handwashing bukkake that had happened over the course of a few thousand years. Even approaching the ridiculously small hand-drying station would require a commitment from a full team of fucking sherpas and possibly a few dozen oxygen tanks. So: Fuck it, you move to the door, desperate to escape and hoping you make it on board your plane in time. Your hands are wet and piss-stained, and you have lost all sense of respect for yourself. Because some drooling damn moron thought it'd be a great fucking idea if we didn't have shit like fucking handles anymore.