Occupied

As men, we on occasion find ourselves standing, sharing a urinal with other guys. It is a weird phenomena, doing what is generally a private function so openly and on mass and as such there are certain unspoken rules applied to ensure it all occurs in accordance with societies conventions. Rules include:

No peeking. Your head must not turn more than 45 degrees either direction and must never look down further than approximately 30 degrees. Of course, there is also eye movement and peripheral vision to consider which is why I abide by the eyes front & center rule, you can’t go wrong there.

Keep a controlled shake. You want to avoid getting a stray drop on a fellow toilet goer with your enthusiastic shaking of the penis. The shaking gesture is also a subtle courtesy to indicate to others that you’re finishing up your time at the urinal.

Mind the gap. It is good manners, when possible, to leave a minimum of one empty urinal between you and other people already using them. Often it is unavoidable to have to slip into the gap left by someone else abiding the rules but just so long as you stick to the no peeking rule outlined above you should be fine. When using a trough however there is more discretion in the distance of spacing between yourself and others. My rule of thumb is, if the gap is so narrow I am touching the people either side of me, I won’t try use the space.

Polite conversation only. Preferably sport related, weather perhaps or just general small talk, no big questions or comments, nothing that can lead into an awkward linger. The last thing you want is to finish your business (with a controlled shake) only to have to hang around a stale men’s room while you finish your discussion on the state of affairs in Libya.

Control your pressure. You push too hard, particularly at a trough, and there can be a larger radius of spray. Think a fire hose sprayed at a wall up close. Splash back. This rule is particularly enforced at a venue where one might be attending the urinal in thongs.

And finally, the wee-fart. Often when you find yourself relaxed, as you do when releasing a steady relieving stream of wee, your whole body plays along which can often result in a wee-fart, the usually deliberate but often accidental fart that comes when weeing. It is often a squeak or a brief pop, never much more than that. Like clearing your throat… only, it’s your bum.

When a wee-fart occurs it is to remain unacknowledged. No one can mention it ever existed unless the person who did it chooses to comment on it, in which case it is okay to laugh or even remark on it.

On my recent trip to the states there were several occasions where I was in the position of using a urinal in the proximity to a bathroom attendant, one of those guys who hands you a towel and offers you aftershave. The first time I was put off and stifled my wee-fart (no easy task) but by my third trip in I just had to let it out. I chose to leave it unspoken rather than try make light of it, i figure it happens enough he’s heard all the classics: “Who stepped on a duck?” and what have you. On that time I tipped $3 instead of the standard $1, i figure there has to be some sort of tax on it.

Fear: When the lock doesn’t work and you have to hold the door shut as people continuously try barge their way in as if their lives depend on it, like you’re shutting the door on a bomb shelter as A-Bomb’s are raining down.

Disgust: When the guy in the stall next to you sounds like he is birthing a small horse. You move your feet over a bit in fear of getting some splash back (or worse) on your shoes.

Indignity: When you see the man emerge from his stall post poop, sweaty, exhausted and looking as if he is escaping from an axe murderer, looking over his shoulder to make sure it isn’t following him as he limps away.

Disgrace: When you notice the same man in line for your flight as you begin to board. He averts his eyes, not wanting to be seen for the bowel shame be bought about on his toilet bowl.

Resignation: When the man lumbers up the aisle of the plane, checking his ticket again and again, hoping it will change but knowing destiny has put him next to the only witness to his stinky crime scene.

Acceptance: When you are in fact the noisy pooper!

*BZZ BZZ*

Stan: Hey mate. Where is it you send your dog when you go away?

Me: Newcastlepetresort.com.au I cannot recommend them highly enough. Why, thinking of checking the Mrs in for a spell?

Stan: This is the Mrs, I’m using Stan’s phone >:(

Me: … woof? …

Ps I can’t help but feel a would have made that above faux pas a bit softer…

Pick a Urinal

Does this happens to you, fellas?

So you go to a public bathroom, either at work or in a pub or the like, somewhere where there are multiple toilets in the one room that are a mix of urinals and cubicles.

Personally, if I’m going for a Number 1. I will head for the urinals first. But when you enter and all the urinals are taken you have to resort to a cubicle instead. In this instance, I tend to keep the door open, as if to say “I’m not shitting, just pissing here, yo”.

Now this is when things start to get complicated. So you’ve gone in to a cubicle to wee because the urinals are taken but then those guys at the urinals finish first and leave whilst you’re still in the cubicle, door open, weeing.

Then some new guys come in and see this empty bathroom, urinals available, and you peeing in a cubicle like some freak.

It’s about this time I feel like I need to defend myself and explain that I had to take the cubicle due to availability but I’m really a urinal guy, just in case these guys think I’m insecure about peeing in public or something. I think this way despite never having entered a men’s room, seen a guy peeing in a cubicle with the door open and thought “you pathetic loser”.

That’s why when I’m done in the cubicle i like to leisurely leave it out as I say a few hellos before putting it away, zipping up and washing my hands , just so there is no misunderstanding about my public bathroom comfort.*

*This is not entirely true… I sometimes don’t wash my hands

Due to no demand, the offending mo

The Final Insult

Cute girl: Hi.

Me: Hey.

Cute girl: You trying to grow a mo for Movember?

Me: Not trying, succeeding.

Cute girl: That? Nah, you’ll get there but that’s no mo, I get more off when I get my lip waxed.

Me: But… It’s November 27th! If it’s not there yet it won’t ever be!

Cute girl: *Tisk* Shame.

Me: Oh…

Cute girl: Are you registered? That really is so pathetic I feel I should donate or something.

So, like the stranger who felt pity for my feeble attempt to grow a mo’ and suffering a month of embarrassment, you too can donate to me. Or you can donate to Movember in general, it is a great cause and a lot of fun, despite all my moaning (see below).

Movember: Having a Ball

Tales from Movember pt1

Tales from Movember pt2

PS I will be shaving at one minute past midnight tonight, should I auction off the hair for more money?

Dentist: Alright, just put your head back and open your mouth wide.

Me: aighhh (speaking with my mouth wide open)

Dentist: Oh my god!

Me: Wha?!

Dentist: I’ve never seen anything like this.

Me: Huh?

Dentist: It’s horrible!

Me: Wha wha!?

Dentist: It’s… some sort of growth on your lip…

Me: … huh?

Dentist: It’s some ginger, fuzzy growth, it’s disgusting.

Me: Shu ud *shut up

Dentist: I’ll do what I can but i work primarily in the mouth, you might want to see a plastic surgeon about it.

Me: *sigh*

The Men’s Room

I am at the urinal doing my business when a man walks in sporting an awesome mustache and begins using the urinal next to me.

Me: Wow, that’s awesome!

Him: Pardon?

Me: I wish I could get mine to grow as long and thick as that.

Him: What!?

Me: You get much money for it?

Him:  

Me:  

He finishes his business quickly and leaves in a hurry. It’s not until he has left I realised I never mentioned I was talking to this man about his mustache.

Expect more Tales from Movember on Ginger Ninja as the month comes to a close. It’s not too late to donate to me. Or just donate in general, it is a great cause and a lot of fun.

Once he’d finished with the long list of questions he began his inspection. There are few things weirder than being nude from the waist down and have someone inspect your junk, I literally didn’t know where to look. When he was done he told me I was “well hung” (he was referencing the nut itself unfortunately) but referred me for an ultra sound none the less, just to be on the safe side. The number of people to have witnessed my balls was now growing exponentially.

The ultrasound doctor (another dude) was grumpy chap. I’d obviously interrupted his lovely day rubbing glowing, elated pregnant womens bellies with my maybe defective ball bag.

When you go in for a testicular ultrasound they make you do this thing where you fold you dick, sorry penis, up against yourself with a little towel leaving the testicles isolated and hanging out on their own. I guess it’s so they’re not constantly not having to knock your penis out of the way but it also helps you feel like you’re retaining some dignity. Then comes the lube.

The doctor lubed up my balls with no less than a handful of lube. Not a squirt, not a drop but a scoop of lube and then proceeds to draw tracks over my balls with a small vegetable peeling looking device. He tells me he is measuring circumference and diameter and looks for anything generally out of the norm… The silence is brutal… It’s a good 15 minutes or more of this dude covering every inch of your boys while you watch a screen that doesn’t look like anything more than smoke.

What’s that? Is that normal? That’s not a 3rd one is it?

Thankfully, my nuts are perfectly normal.

He handed me some paper towel to de-lube my balls (not nearly enough) and left the room. As he left he said if I took my referral to the x-ray people down the hall I could get a print out like the pregnant women do. I really wanted to get it so I could keep it in my wallet and show people “the twins” but with my balls still quite lubed and uncomfortable I decided to leave, walking out like John Wayne through a room full of pregnant women.

So why the sore ball you ask? Well, I found out a week later while at the osteopath that it was probably due to my starting to do some sit-ups and exercise after a prolonged period of inactivity. My ball was hanging a bit different and it was probably just getting in the way a bit more than usual and thus a bit sore and uncomfortable… huh.

The purpose of this story is to show that as embarrassing as it might seem to go through something like this, it’s the same for all blokes and the peace of mind you receive makes it worthwhile. It could also save your life, so if you’re worried about your balls, you should just bite the bullet and get them checked out. A little embarrassment never hurt anyone, and you will probably get a killer story out of it!

And in the spirit of embarrassment I am participating again in this years Movember. If you like the idea of a ranga trying (note: trying) to grow some lip pubes and failing miserably please donate to me. Or just donate in general, it is a great cause and a lot of fun.

A Dumb Kid

One morning, long ago when I was in year 1 of infants school my friends and I were in the playground before class started. It was just like any other morning, running about being Ninja Turtles no doubt, cowabungering this, Kranging that. Then we found a cash register in the bushes.

We all froze mid Bebop. It was like we were all thinking the same exact thing… We’re rich! We were excited. We began discussing how much money we thought was going to be inside. $100′s? $1,000′s!?

We spent the next 15 minutes in deep discussions about how to split the money. I saw it first versus but your parents are already rich versus rochambeau. We were so caught up in our windfall that we hadn’t heard first bell go and everyone else had gone to class. The time we took deciding how to pull off our heist, or lack there of, raised suspicions and once the teacher noticed we were missing they came looking for us.

I can’t imagine what the teacher thought when she stuck her head into the bushes and saw us there, 4 boys standing around an opened cash register playing rock, paper, scissors over who gets stuck with the coins.

We got in trouble for not reporting what we’d found immediately. As if we were the ones who had in fact stolen it.

My poor, young mind went crazy thinking i’d be going to jail for it, for what exactly I have no idea, but I was terrified none the less (and this was before i’d seen HBO’s Oz).

So, instead of finding the cash register, reporting it to a teacher and being heroes we instead got greedy, got caught and were seen as criminals. Meanwhile our playground reputation went through the roof. We had all the girls, red frogs and handball squares we could handle. We lived like kings.

Now, the reason I called this post Why Kids are Dumb is because never mind the fact that no one steals a register only to leave it full of money. Or the fact that there is no way a 7 year old is being sent to prison for finding stolen goods (I mean, the kids in Stand By Me found a body and they didn’t get done for murder). Or the tiny, obvious detail that the cash register was clearly already pried open & empty. Just forget all that, we didn’t for a moment care, our dull child minds simply went: cash register in bushes = free money.

An artists interpretation of me holding a baby

I have never held a baby before. Ever. Not once. I have no interest in it. It scares me. I feel nervous about handling my iphone 4 let alone the product of someones own biology. If someone dropped my phone, it can be replaced. If I were to drop someones baby I don’t think my offer of sleeping with the wife to replace it would really work out.

The heads freak me out. Not being able to lift their own head is just odd. I feel if I hold it wrong the head will pop clean off and roll awkwardly to the feet of the parents, shaking their heads in disbelief, knowing they shouldn’t have let “Uncle Mitch” near their child.

On the weekend I visited my mate who has just had a baby himself (well, his Mrs did the hard work but he helped). After politely declining a few time to hold the baby  I was saved by the arrival of my mates parents, the babies grandparents. I took this window of opportunity to leave while the grandparents were distracted playing with the baby. Then I heard the Grandad say this:

Grandad: *baby goo-goo talk*… Huh. His hairs still a little red, isn’t it… I hope this peach fuzz grows out, we don’t want a ranga in the family.

Me: I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

Grandad: *Looks up at me* Whoops, didn’t realise we had one here…

Me: Yup.

Grandad: Sorry?

Me: Never mind, happens all the time.

Maybe, own one day, I will have a child of my own and maybe I will hold it, but it’s more likely I’ll just hug them when they’re 6 years old or a nice pat on the head or something… If they aren’t one of those unfortunate rangas that is.