DLOG Presents: Earth Day Tips

It's Earth Day again, and instead of sitting around feeling bad about the fact that you still use a can of hairspray each day (dude, I'm telling you, the pompadour is coming back), take some actions. We'll even help. Here are some things you can do to help make a difference, or at least get off Al Gore's %#@$ list:

• Just for today, try not to slap any hippies.


• Use the space in your yard to build a habitat for local woodland creatures. Not only do they have a space to visit and thrive, but it affords you an opportunity to see them up close, making them much easier to shoot.


• Stop buying newspapers - all the news is available online. In addition to saving trees, people will stop talking about how incredibly old fashioned and out of touch you are, causing you to shake your cane at them in a threatening manner.


• Consider unique ways to bring more green plant life to your neighborhood. For instance, there's this kid in the neighborhood who grows all these big plants in his basement, and you can tell it makes him feel really good about himself. It's like that guy is always smiling.


• Showers can use as much as 10 to 25 gallons less water than a bath, and that's not even counting the water saved from using it as a urinal as well.


• Make sure to run full loads of laundry to conserve water. I've run loads so full that some of the clothes come out still dry, which also saves on the power to run the dryer.


• Instead of disposing table scraps down the drain or in a landfill, consider getting a composter. Not only will you get valuable fertilizer for your garden, but many modern composters are large enough to house an entire body. I've heard.


• Don't limit your recycling efforts to the standard plastic jugs and water bottles. Think outside the box and be creative. For example: toilet paper Rorschach tests.

Remember, only you can make the changes needed to save our planet. Unless someone else does instead I guess. Whatever.

God, That Must Be Your Feet Then

I've discussed interesting perfumes and colognes here before. It's kind of required sometimes. I mean, had I not acknowledged the Star Trek colognes (which I still haven't received as a gift despite my best hinting), I would have put my nerd card at risk. And who wouldn't want to cover the Burger King scent. Well, something has come up that surpasses my wildest expectations.

Someone has released the the scent of va-jay-jay in a bottle and called it Vulva Original.

At first I figured this was an April Fool's day set up, but apparently it's been around for years. Trying to ignore the fact that the company didn't go out of business, fire all of it's employees and burn to the ground within weeks of announcing such a product, I did a bit of poking around (heh) and found corroboration via Jezebel. Apparently, they are not actually marketing this as a cologne or perfume but rather a "beguiling vaginal scent which is purely a substance for your own smelling pleasure".

If you can read that sentence without getting a serious case of the wiggums, you're a stronger person than I am.

Of course I have grave concerns about this, starting with that name. What kind of name is "Vulva"? Could they not at least make an effort at being creative? Perfumes always have these subtle names. Why not follow suit and call it something like Marée Basse? That or just go all out and just call it Giney.

Also, if you're going to release a product like this, don't rely on word of mouth to get the news out. This calls for a real marketing effort, a true media blitz. Besides, has there ever been a product that cried out so much for a celebrity spokesperson?

Vulva Original: for the man who wants to smell just like Tiger Woods.

Maybe I Just Don't Understand Art For Art's Sake

Okay, our situation has escalated and I'm now officially upset. See, I take great comfort in my belief that I'm the least mature person I work with. Well, this is no longer something I can take for granted.

At first it was a cry for help, then an unwarranted act of aggression against a friendly reminder of proper hygienic techniques. Oh sure, I wasn't thrilled to think that somewhere in my workplace, a psyche capable of such things was lurking, but what can you do? I work with a lot of people. Realistically, what are the odds that I'm the loopiest? (Don't answer that.)

Today, however, finds a thing that I simply cannot accept. See, someone (and I'm going to assume it's the same individual as before, if for no other reason that it allows me to limit the circle of crazy I'm dealing with) has taken a pen to the men's room and actually drawn a crude representation of male genitalia there. We're talking "creepy laundromat restroom" quality stuff here. In case that was deemed insufficient, he then also carved, for lack of a better term, "a boobie" into the toilet paper dispenser, lest some industrial cleaning person remove his mark from the world.



Look, I'm a graffitti aficionado from way back. I can understand wanting to share your vision with the world, regardless of what medium presents itself. This, however, this truly leaves me aghast. This is something I would have considered childish in middle school. The idea that here, in a professional setting, there lurks a mind that determined this to be a reasonable plan of action, that said to itself, "If only this wall had a weenie on it, then maybe things would be okay", actually leaves me uncomfortable in a way I haven't been since realizing that a lot of the people who comment on YouTube videos can legally vote.

This has me genuinely upset. It's not that I'm a prude. I can withstand the sight of a badly drawn bit of junk. It's just that I have certain expectations from people, expectations that I consider reasonable, and when those around me fail to meet these expectations...well, frankly it reduces my faith in humanity in general.

God dammit people, if you're going to write on bathroom walls, you have to at least try to be funny!

Best Part: Googling Each One To Make Sure They're Not In Use

It may surprise you to find out that Dangerously Low On Grog was not the only idea for an online foray I've entertained. I had several concepts for online journals that, for one reason or another, just never took off. Here are some examples that any of you are welcome to steal if the mood strikes you.

• Lord Blackheart's Musings on the Misery that is Life
  Given up because I had to end my Goth phase. Who has time to put on black eye liner and lip gloss when you're trying to get kids out the door?
  


• Things My Colon Said
  Pretty self explanatory. Had to abandon this one on the grounds that my lovely wife threatened to leave me while I was "searching for the perfect quote".


• Neat Places To Hide Bodies
  Closed on the advice of my attorney.


• Things You Can Stuff Into Petas
  Fat-fingered the title, inadvertently leading to several animal-rights activists being stuffed with lamb meat and cucumber sauce and then offing themselves over the guilt of enjoying it so much.


• Foods That Smell Like Body Parts
  Shut down due to lack of interest/appetite.
  


• Proof That the Internet Is Full Of Morons
  Closed because YouTube/news site comments pretty much cover everything I could have ever said.


• How To Make People Say "Hey, Who's Touching Me?"
  Also closed on the advice of my attorney. Dude has no respect for social experiments.


• Will This Fit There?
  Closed due to repeated injury.

Fortunately I settled on DLOG, where the research is easier and doesn't involve injury/revulsion/potential litigation (usually).

Honestly, the Vaginal Discharge Jokes Write Themselves

It's time for another sinus infection, and having procured yet another batch of prescription medication, I decided that just for fun I would actually read the little insert my pharmacist put into the bag instead of tossing it like I usually do. This, like most things I do, has led to some unusual thoughts. The thing that really got to me was in the section possible side effects.

Seek medical attention right away if any of these SEVERE side effects occur when using Amoxicillin/Clavulanate:

Severe allergic reactions (rash; hives; itching; difficulty breathing; tightness in the chest; swelling of the mouth, face, lips, or tongue); bloody stools; confusion; dark urine; fever, chills, or persistent sore throat; red, swollen, blistered, or peeling skin; seizures; severe diarrhea; stomach pain or cramps; unusual bruising or bleeding; vaginal discharge or irritation; yellowing of the skin or eyes.

These, as you know, are always my favorite part. I love the idea that I would need to be told to seek medical attention for some of this stuff. What say we break that list down?

• Severe allergic reactions (rash; hives; itching; difficulty breathing; tightness in the chest; swelling of the mouth, face, lips, or tongue)
  Duh


• bloody stools
  Ewwwwww...and "duh"


• confusion
  So I'm supposed to contact my doctor if I'm taking this and I watch Donnie Darko?
  


• dark urine
  What, like color, or prone to writing bad poetry and listening to Bauhaus?


• fever, chills, or persistent sore throat
  Dude, I'm sick - why do you think I'm on this to begin with?


• red, swollen, blistered, or peeling skin
  Okay, so spontaneous combustion is out so long as I'm on this stuff.


• seizures
  Not sure what the police taking my hard drive has to do with anything, but I guess I can tell me doctor. The pictures were of his wife after all.


• severe diarrhea
  Okay, define "severe". I'm not in the habit of rating my diarrhea (cha cha cha). Should I be going with book length, and maybe most Stephen King is okay but The Stand warrants a hospital stay?


• stomach pain or cramps
  Well, alright, but why my doctor wants to know about me eating an entire bag of Habanero Doritos is beyond me. Actually, this might apply to the last item as well.


• unusual bruising or bleeding
  As opposed to the usual stuff.


• vaginal discharge or irritation
  Yes, if I discharge a vagoo I'll let someone know. The other is more difficult, as vaginas are notoriously polite and might not mention it if I irritate them, no matter how much they abhor the term "vagoo".


• yellowing of the skin or eyes
  Hopefully, no one in Springfield will ever have need of this particular medication.
  

Of course I shouldn't mock. This will inevitably lead to me someday perishing from a severe reaction. I'll be left to die a swollen, peeling, confused, bloated, bruised, bleeding wreck of a man, lying in my own filth and mysteriously discharging vaguely irritated vaginas.

It'll make one hell of an obituary though, don't you think?

No Need To Get All Snippy Now

Circumcisions are interesting things when you think about it. It has for a long time now been a standard practice in the USA, and yet it doesn't make a ton of sense to me. As far as I can tell, the primary argument in favor of it (outside of religious practices) is that it's more sanitary, as the cut version is supposedly easier to clean that the alternative.



Now, maybe it's me, but I'm reasonably sure that if you were to approach an adult male and offer to cut off a part of his junk so he doesn't have to wash as well, he will politely decline (and by 'politely decline', I mean he will grasp himself protectively and then either flee whimpering or beat you soundly). I mean, we don't do this for other body parts, so why this? Are we that uncomfortable as a society with sitting our sons down and explaining to them the proper application of soap to ones dangly bits?

Maybe we should extend this practice. Perhaps our mistake is not the medically acceptable mutilation of our children, but rather not taking it far enough. I was, for example, occasionally reprimanded for not properly washing behind my ears as a child. You know what would have made that totally easier? Not having ears in the way. I bet you get way less ear infection that way too.

You know what else we could eliminate this way? Underwear streaking. Seriously, you know what the primary issue is with coming clean after making a major transaction in the restroom? No, it's not whether you do your cleanup standing or sitting (another mind-blowing topic altogether). It's your butt cheeks all getting in the way of your business.

Simple solution? Total butt cheek removal. Believe me, I know better than most the usefulness of the human butt cheeks, so I don't make this suggestion lightly. Still, think about how sanitary things would be. Why, we could see the total elimination of hemorrhoids in a single generation.

Now obviously I'm being slightly sarcastic. I would never actually condone the removal of the human butt cheek, if for no other reason than it would create a world where flatulence would lose it's musical qualities and the SBD would become the norm. Rather, I'm trying to point out that maybe it's okay to question some of these things people seem to take for granted, like automatically taking the comb off your son's rooster being a good idea.

Frankly, I'm just glad I'm a man and feel comfortable discussing this with you fine people - women's health issues are not only way more complicated, but I know far fewer euphemisms I can use for female anatomy and still maintian a PG-13 website.

After All, Booty Is Only Skin Deep

Okay, so once in a while, I come across a story that I want to talk about- I mean, something that just begs for me to rip into it and tear it all to shreds - but it's kind of a sad story, so I hesitate. Such a thing is the tale of former Miss Argentina Solange Magnano, who died as a result of complications during butt surgery. Elective butt surgery, actually. She basically gave her life in an effort to have taught, firm buttocks, a noble goal no doubt, but hardly one I would consider worth risking one's life over.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm going to make some crack about this. You're thinking that a cheeky fellow such as myself will not be able to let this one sit. You're thinking I'm going to allow this person's death to become the butt of my jokes. Seriously though, someone has died here, and left a beautiful set of twins behind her to be reared by someone else. I mean sure, in hindsight it was a bad idea, but I'm sure she assessed the risk, decided it was worth the booty (these surgeries aren't cheap) and assumed the responsibility for her actions. What kind of ass do you take me for to thing that I would mock such a thing? In fact, I'm proud that someone as immature as myself can take the high road here, and I hope all of you who took the opportunity to poke fun of this tragic story fell guilty to the very bottoms of yourselves.

The very bottoms I say.

What's Really Sad? She Never Said Anything Like That.

Despite what you all may think, I am actually a bastion of self-control when it comes to deciding what I do or no not say in public spaces. A bastion I tell you. I'm extremely adept at determining what is or is not appropriate in social situations, and make decisions based on that knowledge. Sure, I'm willing to push a few boundaries, but I usually know right when to reel it in.

That said, I do face temptations - things I think about saying, but resist due to societal pressures. For example, when asked how things are going by a coworker, I have thus far resisted telling them that my workload is backed up like the inventor of the all-cheese diet. Also, I don't ever say "that's what she said", even if it's completely fitting. You don't know how hard it gets sometimes.

You just said it to yourself, didn't you? See. It's harder than most people realize.

Okay, now stop it.



It's not just work either. When I'm using a public urinal next to another guy, and a bit of gas escapes me in a boisterous manner, despite my usual misgivings I have this nigh-irresistible urge to turn to the guy and declare, "That's right. I said it.". I have no idea where this comes from, or what the consequences might be of such a thing, but I'd hate to have to explain to my lovely wife that I got my ass kicked because I was backing up the statements of last night's nachos.

Ah, self-preservation, you ruin so many good joke opportunities for me.

Why Do You Blush Whenever I'm Carrying Chapstick?

One of the best things about my place of employment is the on-site workout facilities. This means that I can exercise over lunch without having to shell out for a gym membership, which is awesome. The only catch is that it means that I am sharing locker facilities with coworkers, something I'm not entirely comfortable with.

I've never been a big fan of the locker room in the first place. I'm not weird about it or anything. I just always feel like there's a set of guys who are a little too comfortable just kind of hanging out in there. Chatting. While they're hanging out in there. While I'm not the most prudish of individuals, this falls into a similar category as talking to me while you're in a bathroom stall - I'd love to talk, but why don't we wait until you've, you know, put your %#$@ing pants back on. I don't see where your co-anchor needs to be part of this interview.

This is amplified at the work place, where there is already a certain competition between cohorts. I am personally of the opinion that the less my coworkers know about me, the better. As such, I don't see where they need to know about my scars or tattoos or whether or not I wear underwear with cartoon animals on them...you know, personal information. And I feel no need to know about theirs, either.

Of course I might just be paranoid. Most likely we're all just trying to take care of ourselves, and my concerns are unfounded. Still, there are times where I feel like someone may have disseminated information that I would rather stay private. Again, it's probably just paranoia, but still it bothers me.

Especially that one day where no one reacted at all to my walking around with a banana in my pocket all morning, but as soon as I bought a roll of Certs...nah, I'm sure it was nothing.

Parenting: A Haiku

Kids sharing bath time
When my daughter says the words,
"Hey, there's poop in here".

I Really Thought the Little Clown Costumes Would Have Done It

I'm a cat person for a few reasons. Cats are (mostly) dignified. They're small. I'm pretty sure I could take one in a fair fight. Mostly though, owning a cat doesn't rely on me following my pet around with a plastic bag on my hand waiting for something awful to occur.

Now I know, however, that the alternatives are much worse.

Specifically, I'm referring to PooTrap, a new fangled device used to skip the whole "picking it up" step. I'm not going to describe the product when they have been gracious enough to supply an ad. Watch it. You'll thank me.



I think my favorite part of this product is the way they have cunningly combined all the charm of a diaper with the tastefulness of a gimp suit. I also enjoy some of their specific decisions, like not supplying opaque bags, thus allowing everyone to fully view the transaction taking place, or the fact that removal of the bag involves tugging on your dogs rear end (here's hoping it never gets stuck, forcing you to give it a really good pull). You really have to admire the amount of work these people have put towards accomplishing something that I thought was completely impossible.

One way or another, they're going to find a way to humiliate a dog.

The 1812 Overture Would Totally Work As Well

Here's a suggestion to businesses. I understand that you want people to be relaxed and happy when they are there, and as such you might choose relaxing music to pipe into the place. The problem is that you have the one sound system typically, so whatever is playing in the main area is also playing in the restrooms. This needs to change. Lionel Ritchie or Micheal Bolton is fine if I'm there to relax over dinner (I guess), but it's not doing anything to cover the end results of the guy in the next stall winning the "who can eat the most jalapeno poppers" contest. I'm thinking something by Metallica or AC/DC would be more appropriate.

Thunderstruck seems fitting.

Painted With Cow's Feet, or Hoof Arted

One of my co-workers today was imparting upon me a family tale whereby one of his young relatives updated the time-honored classic "He who smelt it dealt it" with the more colloquial "The smeller is the feller". While a notable addition to the many variations that currently exist, I take issue with the rule itself. In fact, upon consideration, I think it's almost completely invalid.

Presumably, the rule is based on the classic gaseous misdirect, whereby the farter, waiting until the correct moment, casts the blame of the noxious fumes filling the area on a sitter nearby. While this does undoubtedly occur, I think it's really relegated to the area of sport among brothers, where the attempt is done not so much to hide guilt as to embarrass the accused.

Upon consideration, there are only two scenarios where a standard emission would potentially be blamed on another, and I really believe that in both cases it's the exception rather than the rule, the first case being the audible escapee. I'll give you an example. I heard an oft repeated tale in the circle of friends my parents sometimes hung around with that told of a man who, during a wedding, made the grave error of allowing a particularly noisy fart escape during a quiet moment on the ceremony. Thinking quickly, he promptly turned to his wife sitting next to him and accusingly said her name, as if appalled. Now, this is obviously a variation of the rule, and probably done for comedic purposes (that, or he had a really comfy couch at home), but really, how many would be so bold to take such actions?

The second, and more common, occurrence is the release of a traditional SBD in a crowded area. My favorite example of this is the theater or lecture hall, where people are crowded into rows of chairs. It is in this case, a case more closely related to the smelt-it-dealt-it adage in question, where the whole thing falls apart. An experienced practitioner of such deviltry will quickly point out that the correct reaction upon realizing that the rush of hot wind was indeed full of foul vapors is no reaction at all. Rather than accusing someone, it is best to wait it out. If you're lucky, the heaviness of the funk will bring the whole mess to ground level before it can spread to those around you. If the fallout does, in fact, begin to cause gasps, cries, eye watering, etc. in those around you, it is best to not be the first to react, instead reacting second or even third, thus maintaining the illusion that the wind is breaking from another direction.

This is all of course simply conjecture, as I have no first hand (cheek?) experience in such things myself. If I were to, however, I would recommend owning up to your own stink. Do not attempt to feign ignorance of what has occurred, which can lead to a habitual accusing and even shameful incidents such as my sister attempting the whole "Who farted?" routine when she and I were the only parties present (schmuck). Rather, be proud of the miracle that is your body, and the fact that it has the power to draw breath, think thoughts, create works, and clear a thirty-foot diameter circle in a crowded theater.

Just don't do it around me, 'kay?

You Ever Accidentally Sit On The Remote? Well, That Just Got a Whole Lot Weirder.

Today, I've found another brilliant new technology, and I have to speak on it. Also, I'm going to use the word 'penis'. Repeatedly.

According to the link here (and my research has not unveiled it as false yet), Panasonic is experimenting with a gel remote that "stiffens" when it's used. My paraphrasing won't do it justice, so here's the line from the site:

Constructed of a soft, flesh-like gel, the remote appears cold when off. Once turned on, however, it seems to come to life. A soft light emanates somewhere from within as the center of the device begins to slowly rise and fall, mimicking the tranquil motions of breath. Left undisturbed, the remote will slumber peacefully. But should a human hand approach, sensors inside alert it to the imminent touch. It stops breathing, grows rigid - the light from within is extinguished.

And here it is:


Ordinarily, I would write this off as a joke. I mean surely no right-minded individual was looking at a remote control and thought to themselves, "Well sure it's useful, but how could I make it more like my penis?". So that means it penis-like qualities are accidental, which I would not have believed possible, but having watched the whole tea-bagging debacle unfold, I suppose my faith in human ignorance of double entendre has been restored to new heights.

Then it hits me that no, this isn't accidental at all. Someone in marketing has finally figured out a way to make men buy anything. Do you need a new remote? Of course not. You've probably got three you don't use already. But what if we can make it work just like your penis? Well, at the very least you have my attention.

This could lead to a whole new world of products. Penis flashlights. Penis pens. Penis kitchen utensils. A tool chest full of flaccid gadgets awaiting your firm grip to spring to life. Don't even get me started on the world of possibilities when it comes to the world of weaponry. Aim and fire indeed.

Of course, there is a risk inherent in such a product line (beyond the obvious embarrassment that would occur when you tried to show it off only to discover the batteries had died, leaving you unable to perform your channel changing). One of the great battles in any household is who is the keeper of the remote. In my house, we actually run a two party system, with my lovely wife controlling volume while I run the DVD player, to avoid the issue. Now imagine the battle should we invest in a universal remote of this type. You know how sometimes one of you can make the remote work better than the other one can? What if you had this remote, and somehow she was just better with it?

I would continue, but I've just been informed by the ghost of Sigmund Frued that I've officially taken it too far. There's one more reason I should remember not to leave the Ouija board out.

I Actually Envy "That Kid Who Farted Each Day During Story Time"

This morning, I faced one of those delicate parenting situations that I dislike. The Princess, having successfully dressed and brushed her teeth and whatnot, finished her morning by brushing her hair. All good so far. Then she tried to put a braid in her hair that involved the hair wrap she got at Disney (the thing where they wrap string around a small patch of hair, add a few beads, and then charge you the price of a small, foreign car for it), with the end result making her hair bunch and gather and basically look like that of a wild woman.

Now she was pretty proud of herself, and I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but I could not in good conscience let this go. See, as a youth I was left pretty unaware of anything by way of fashion sense. This is bad, but the fact is that my mother, who was responsible for selecting clothing for me, had some questionable habits, really pushed it into weird territory.

First, my mother had this habit of buying painter pants for me. This alone isn't offensive (although I still think it's odd that I didn't actually own a pair of jeans until late middle school). The issue was that she bought them in colors that do not flatter...well anyone. Serously, I wore plaid pants to my first three years of elementary schools. Multiple kinds of plaid. Plurals of plaid. Years later, when I run into people from that town (it's only that we moved that allowed me to achieve a decent social life), they honestly only remember me as "the kid with the plaid pants". Nice.

Now this alone could be overcome assuming that at some point I took up golf, which is the only socially acceptable excuse for plain pants so far as I can tell, but things got worse. See, she bought most of my clothes from the local Goodwill. I'm not sure why she had an obsession for Goodwill, but she did. As a result, I frequently ended up with an odd assortment of clothes that others had gotten rid of. Oh sure, some of them were disposed of because someone had grown out of them, but some were clearly a decision based on something more fashion oriented. Anyway, it resulted in things like me being the only kid I knew in a used, red Micheal Jackson jacket long after there was even a potential for such a thing to be cool.

So yeah, I feel the need to protect my daughter from this kind of thing. It's not that I want her to think that the way you look is the most important thing in the world. At the same time, it's disingenuous to pretend that you're not going to get judged on it by some people, and just working from my own experience, I can tell you the following is true:



Seriously, it's a wonder I didn't get beat up more often than I did.

Another Good Reason Not To Shake Hands

Yesterday, I had one of those moments that always throws me for a loop. I'm in the restroom at work, I'm washing my hands, and I hear a flush. (Yes it's another bathroom post. What do you want from me? Nothing interesting happens when I'm sitting at my desk.) Dude walks out of a stall, looks at himself in the mirror, and tips out the door. He didn't so much as run his hands under the water. He just smiled at himself and then bailed.

Now I'm hardly a neat freak. I'm actually one of those people who believe that we over-encourage hand washing to a fault. I prefer that my kids go ahead and get a little dirty and pick up a few bugs, allowing their bodies to build defenses to those bugs. I sometimes fear that all of our antibacterial soap is doing is breaking down these defenses, allowing some new strain of bug to come along and bam, we've got a pandemic. Zombie apocalypses don't start from nothing, you know.

There are exceptions to this, though (the hand washing thing, not the zombies). Getting ready to prepare food? Wash your hands. Thinking about performing surgery? Wash your hands. Thinking about jamming a camera up my hind end to check for God knows what? Wash everything in the room. Twice. Probably give it a good once over afterward as well.

Well if you haven't figured it out yet, another exception is if you've just used the bathroom in any capacity, but especially if you were there to get some reading done. It's hard to express the horror I felt when I realized that the dude was just going to wander off. I had to resist the urge to cry out in alarm. For the life of me, I wanted to step out of the bathroom, point at him, and let fly with one of those screeches from Invasion of the Body Snatchers, alerting everyone before the perpetrator touched a coffee pot or put his filthy hands into our kitchen utensils.



Of course, I could have just politely suggested that he wash his hands, but my way would have had a more long term effect, don't you think?

Sometimes, Aim Is Not Enough

We're not going to talk about Earth Day being today, because let's be honest, Earth is getting plenty of PR. Don't believe me? Go ask someone over the age of four if they know what Earth is. Besides, now Earth has Disney working for it, so really, what more could I add?

No, instead I'm going to continue yesterday's conversation of awkward things men have to deal with in restrooms that our lady friends do not. Not that the women should all stop reading at this point - you've got fathers, husbands and sons who deal with these issues, and you should know about them, particularly this one, as we are occasionally reprimanded as a result of it. See when a woman approaches a numero uno situation, she is going to sit down. This has predictable results, i.e. you know where everything is headed at the penultimate moment. This means that you never have to face one of the strangest things that can happen to a man.

Once in a while, with absolutely no warning whatsoever, you fire in a completely random direction.

Seriously, it's terrifying. You're stepping up to do your business, and the next thing you know, your shooting a laser beam at a distinct forty-five degree angle to the left, and you have no idea why. You haven't changed your stance, your grip is the same as last time, there's no dramatic variance in pressure, but the result looks like your attempting the maneuver in a hurricane wind. If you're lucky, you quickly correct for the new trajectory and that's the end of it.

Sometimes, however, things go from bad to worse. Again, for reasons typically not apparent, your correction just leads to a radically new direction. A hard left shifts to some combination of right, down, or, in the truly worst case scenario, up. You find yourself squirming around trying to get things under control (for some reason, the idea of stopping typically never crosses the mind - it's too much like stopping to ask for directions perhaps, and besides, the seal's been broken and there's really no turning back that that point) until the mission is complete, hopefully with as little splash damage as possible.

If that isn't weird enough for you, there's the extra special case where you go to do your thing only to discover that the beam is split. Oddly enough, this is nowhere near as harrowing as the other cases. At that point you know you're screwed, so you just have to try and correct for the branch that would cause the most damage and commit to cleaning up afterward.

So yeah, when a man goes to rid himself of that last cup of coffee, there's a slight chance he's about to become the unwitting participant in a brief adventure. Be glad then, female readers, that when you go about your business, you can be fairly confident that the outcome is as predictable as the wardrobe of any movie shown after midnight on Cinemax (Wait, they have to take their clothes off why now?). Perhaps you might even be a little understanding when you find that a man in your life has strayed a bit.

On the bright side, we can still draw pictures in the snow, and that will never cease to be awesome.

You're Eyes Say It All

I was discussing men's restroom decorum with a coworker last week (a topic I think about more than I should). He expressed the opinion that there is never an acceptable topic to broach whilst two men are doing their business. I thought on this for a while, and have determined that, like most statements involving absolutes, it simply isn't accurate.

Admittedly, the topic came up because I was faced with a situation whereby another man and myself stepped up at the same time. I finished first, and had to resists the urge to look at this other person whom I had never met and say, "I won". In hindsight, I'm glad I resisted, as my declaration of victory could have been misunderstood, and I would hate to be responsible for another man questioning his manhood.

Anyway, now I'm trying to figure out just what is an appropriate topic of conversation when two men are performing a transaction. I mean, there are the obvious things, like, "Hey, that's mine. Don't pee on that.". Obviously, the invading of personal space could be discussed, particularly if someone is reaching under your stall. I could even see being able to call someone out if you suspect them of using a camera in the men's room, particularly if the flash keeps going off (pretty big giveaway, and a not uncommon rookie mistake).

But what of less confrontational situations? What if you hear gunshots, or feel an earthquake, but you'll probably be done before it really effect either of you? Do you let that go without comment? Or what happens if you find yourself in a stall without any toilet paper (which shouldn't ever happen, because the experienced man checks first)? Is it permissible to ask, or are you supposed to tough it out or MacGyver some solution out of toilet seat covers?

Just in case, I'm going to start carrying around one of those little packs of tissues in my pocket - one can never be to ready.

The Low Down

So, I step into the men's room at work one day, and discover one of the two urinals populated. Since using another restroom would have required walking to the next building, an unrealistic option given my coffee intake of the day, I have no choice but to step up to the remaining urinal despite strong social mores against standing toe-to-toe with another fella. This meant that I was using the urinal that hung on the wall substantially lower than the other one, which got me wondering why there was such a height differential in the first place.

I mused (correctly, I might add) that the placement of the low urinal was for accessibility reasons. Furthermore, I decided that the parties being considered were probably the vertically challenged, as the well-hung are grossly underrepresented when such considerations are made (I've heard tell that Johnny Homes himself could nary walk into a public restroom without tearing up at the shame of having to use a full toilet for a minor transaction, but I digress). So now I'm standing there considering the process by which the good people in the Government decided that urinals should be hung "with an elongated rim at a maximum of 17 in (430 mm) above the floor".

Scientist (probably in a white lab coat holding a clipboard): Okay Tiny Pete, please step up to urinal number 2.
Tiny Pete: Don't call me that.
Scientist: Right. Sorry. So, whenever you're ready.
Tiny Pete: (Fires)
Scientist: Okay, we can clearly see an arch required to hit the target. I'm thinking that we're a good three inches too high on this one.
Tiny Pete: Doctor, I can't keep up pressure!
Scientist: Oh lord! We have a breach! Pete, stop!
Tiny Pete: It's too late, doctor! The seal is broken! There's no turning back!
Scientist: Gah! Why didn't they listen to me when I said to start low? Everyone, to high ground! Save your shoes!

I'm sure it went something like that. So now I've got this little vignette playing in my head. The chaos. The shrieks of horror. The scientists cursing themselves for not wearing goggles. It's all there. Fortunately, I managed to stifle a chuckle at all of this (snickering while standing next to another guy at the urinals is generally frowned upon, particularly by the other guy). Still, what I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall during that particular process.

So long as we're not talking about the urinal wall.

The Haunting of BVD

Last week I was discussing the impressionable nature of people and how that nature allows shows like Ghost Hunters to survive, and as usual my mind wandered in relation to it. I got to thinking about how they film a show like that. I mean, it's a bunch of guys (plus a token female or two now to add balance) sitting around a supposedly haunted location and...well, recording it. I mean, they record sound and video for hours I bet just to get the semi-spooky fifteen minutes they show us.

What this means is that there are hours of footage of these guys just hanging around this house or hotel or prison or whatever. Now, if you've followed this blog at all, you know right where my mind led at this point. We've got dudes, just hanging out. Yeah, they're on television, and they're professionals, but they're still dudes. I so want to get a hold of the outtakes that I know they're never going to put on television.

Grant: Okay, so far we're not picking up any activity. [Ghost name], are you here with us. Just give us some kind of sign.
Jason: (Looking slightly uncomfortable) Uhhh, yeah. If you're here, just let us know.
Grant: I don't know. I'm just not getting anything. Maybe we should check the attic again.
Jason: Wait, did you hear that?
Grant: (Sits silently, focusing in that very serious way he does)
Jason: Phhhrrrrrrrrt.
Grant: Oh man. (Waving arms in the air.) Dude, what did you eat?
Jason: Oooh, the spirits are angry here.
Grant: (Gasping) Christ. Whatever it is up Jason's ass, stay away from the light!

You know this footage is out there somewhere. I don't care how professional you are - you put a bunch of guys in a house with nothing better to do that sit around listening for a sign of otherworldly life, one of them is cutting loose. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if one of the "voices" they caught during their EVP recordings was nothing but someone's kielbasa making a hasty exit, and they didn't fess up to it. "It sounds like it said 'fur blat', followed by a high pitched whining sound. Does that mean anything to you?"

Honestly, it's a testament to how professional they really are that they didn't giggle.