Chit Chat in the Shit Shack

I, much like every other human being has spent my fair share of time in public bathrooms. Unfortunately it is a necessary evil, and one that can, at times prove to be remarkably entertaining. There is a hierarchy of behavior when you are in one, and there are certain unspoken rules which are NOT to be broken. These rules are completely different from locker room etiquette. In the locker room, touching, talking, nudity etc are all part of the male bonding ritual. In the mens room, you avoid eye contact, speaking, touching, etc. Unfortunately, there are men who either ignore the rules, or just don't care. Learn more about violations, and specific requirements HERE .

The majority of my mens room experiences involves the crapper in a bar (surprise, SURPRISE, SEhr priz). Now bar pissers run the gamut from high falutin, (there is a Mexican man at the Princeton in Avalon who hands you mints, towels and condoms) to the WTF (the bar in Harrisburg PA where the urinal was a mop sink).

99% of bar mens rooms are used for 3 main purposes, to pee (seems simple right? not really), to puke (it is a bar after all), and to do coke. On a busy Saturday night all three of these activities will be occurring around you, often times someone will be performing 2 of the 3 simultaneously.

One of the big mens room rules is the no speaking rule, in bars this one gets thrown out the window. Conversations occur all around you, and often times they are one sided. They will be mumbled by a drunk that believes he is not alone, shouted by the man urinating in the stall whose buddies have all walked away, and there is ALWAYS the cell talker. I was the cell talker.

I got my first cell phone way, way back in the Jurassic. I was actually embarrassed to own one, mainly because no one else had one. Whenever it would ring in the bar I would go tearing off to the bathroom to hide in a stall and have a conversation. I became a bit of a joke, "Where's Jim?", people would ask. "Oh he's in the bathroom, in a stall" (HAHA, my bitchy friends were so funny, this is partially to blame for people thinking I was an escort in my 20's, but I digress)

I made a second visit to the moose lodge /gay bar in the nearest big city. It was not quite as dramatic as the first visit, but just as interesting. This time I went pretty toned down in attire, well for me anyway, I was wearing a nice pair of jeans, a black t-shirt and my favorite cashmere sweater. I always forget that you can still smoke IN bars in Pennsylvania, so in an effort to preserve my sweater, I put it with my jacket in the coat check. This means that I am now in a too tight black t-shirt, and the gun show is open.

I venture upstairs, and suddenly I am surrounded by flash bulbs, 50 people, a man with a scepter, crown, and what I think is a porn star holding his cape. Thankfully the various factions here for the birthday party eventually break into their individual clusters, and the photo ops begin to end. I notice a local ambisexual singer (who facebook thinks should be my friend) from a rock band walk in with a slightly chubby woman, and a gorgeous twinky boy, who may or may not have to take off his shoes to tell you his actual age. Which one is his date is an unknown at this point, but after the twinky starts slamming shots and staring me down, I am guessing he singer is dating the man who can say "I am THIS many!" while holding up a few fingers. Keep staring, I have a finger for ya, Mister Sister.

As the night progresses, I run into a friend, and a few guys say hello that recognize me from online. I am getting the stynk eye from This Many across the bar, and I really have no idea why, but it may be because he has slammed back more shots than his actual age. Breaking away from my friends I venture to the bathroom. Upon entering I see This Many at the urinal, I opt to pee in the stall (see proper etiquette above). His head is tilted to the left, and speaking, so I assume he is multitasking. As I am emptying my bladder, I hear a slurred "HEY, I am talking to you." Which I summarily ignore. "HEY! Whass your fucking problem? I am talking to you."

"ME? I thought you were talking on the phone." I respond. Shake, flush, zip, and I exit the stall.

"Nuh-uh, I wash tulkin to you, You wlive in Uhllantin?" This question is uttered, with one eye shut, face screwed up in classic early twenties drunk face. The one that vaguely reminds you of a two year old encountering asparagus for the first time. The look of shock, confusion, how did I get here and exactly WHAT is this on my plate. Only difference is that a two year old is more stable on their feet than this Kat is.

"What?" (This seems to be my standard response to everyone anymore)

Attempting to enunciate makes him wobble more, his attempt to locate my face requires him to close one eye, then the other, while zooming his head in and out like he is focusing a microscope. "Duh U, Leave, in Ullinton?" One eye shut, oops wait, now its the other eye, sailor on a ship at sea in a storm movements, mouth in a Betty Boop moue, and brows furrowed as if confronted with an algebra equation 10 years after highschool, and you have the beast confronting me on my home location.

"NO" I respond, "I live in the woods about twenty miles away. Why?"

"Oh. U shur?"

"Yeah, why?"

"OK, Bye"

That's it? All of it? Really? No what's your name, how you doin? My name is Stumble Mc Drunklefuck? Nothing? This entire encounter is a dud. I am so disappointed, where is the vomiting super model, the naked downs syndrome kid that never locks the door when peeing, the celebrity doing coke off the floor, or the old perv playing pocket pool while winking lasciviously at me.

Here is the lesson learned. If you are going to make an ass out of yourself in a bar bathroom, do it well. Make it EPIC. Make it a story I can tell my grandchildren.

Kids these days.....