Potty Humor

I work in what amounts to an office building with several departments sharing the second floor. I have a ridiculous addiction to Diet CokeÔ so I find myself vagabonding to the facilities several times a day. I cannot speak for girls but for men, there is a certain code of ethics one must follow when in our porcelain utopia. There are the well known ones: if applicable, ALWAYS put at least one urinal between yourself and the other gentleman. Nothing screws up my chi like when a guy comes in and stands right next to me when there are two or three other places for him to stand. This is especially aggravating at stadiums and arenas where there are 40 urinals. Perhaps it is my animal magnetism or my striking blue eyes that pop when I’m wearing a blue shirt, or other unmentionables.

Men should not speak past a polite “hello” or my personal calling card, “sup dude.” Anything further disrupts my comfort level and concentration. Unless I’ve had asparagus and I feel compelled to apologize because nobody really needs to be subjected to that. I actually apologize to myself in this case. Ick.

While the above two are important, they are not the pinnacles of the bathroom dude code. Nay. Together, those are but the penultimate to my number one rule: When you are going number two or otherwise involved with a bathroom stall and you hear the bathroom door open, it is a moral imperative that you give some sort of signal alerting others that the space is occupied. Normally this is achieved through a clearing of the throat or a sniffing of the nose. It behooves me to illustrate this with a story.

Most times when I walk into the rest room and I hear the signal, I think, “Oh heavens, I have intruded on someone’s happy time. I shall be silent, finish quickly, and exit expeditiously.” This time though, there was no signal. There was nothing at all but complete, utter silence. And for that, I learned something new about myself; a new, deep, dark secret. I sing when I pee. I did not hum, I did not mumble incoherent lyrics under my breath. I straight made that toilet my own personal Broadway stage. I wish I could say I at least sang something manly, Eye of the Tiger, Welcome to the Jungle, Enter Sandman. No dice. Gaga. Opening stanza. Bad Romance. I put such a tongue roll on the first two “ RAH RAH’s” that I almost did a little salsa dance. That could cause splash and dribble though. Splash and dribble are unacceptable so I held strong.

I completed my five-second self-concert and was pretty proud of myself when I heard the unmistakable rattle of keys from one of the stalls. Privacy foiled. He gave no signal. I saw no feet beneath the door. At first I thought perhaps he had them pressed against the door, you know, for leverage. But then, I heard no squeaks nor squirts, and smelled no funk. Who was this ninja? I had no time to find out. I had to get the heck out of dodge lest my identity be discovered and I be outed as the surefire pop icon I know I can be. I zipped, washed, dried, and made it out the door in less than three seconds, albeit not real clean and not real dry. Adrenaline, what can I say?

So let that serve as a lesson to you. If you are in the stall and you hear the door open. You best sigh heavily or you could find yourself witness to amazing vocals and possible choreography.

Dad Stories

Getting older makes Christmas lists harder. Now, when we want something, we just go buy it. This year I mainly asked for books and clothes. These are lame gifts when you are young but surprisingly satisfying once 30 rolls around. I also asked for the new Legend of Zelda game to play on my Wii. It will surely remind me of college when I would play the new Zelda game on the N64 sitting in my roommate Luke’s recliner taking shots of Iron City beer every 60 seconds. Now though, I will sit on the edge of my couch taking sips of water while praying to God that the authentic sword sounds emanating from my controller don’t wake my wife up. That happened once. That won’t happen again.

My dad is irritatingly hard to shop for. He tells you that he doesn’t want anything and he absolutely means it. One Christmas, I bought him the book Friday Night Lights before it was ever a movie or TV show. He re-gifted it to me later that evening. He seemed really excited to give me the book so I in turn was excited to receive it. He can just get inside your head like that. Consummate salesman, my dad.

One time in middle school, I had to take a Home Economics class. I like to be well rounded. I can’t always be about sports and girls. Sometimes a guy needs to sew himself some pants to feel good about himself. In my mission to manufacture these dungarees of doom, I needed to procure a pattern. Unfortunately for me and my dad, my mother was working at a local arts festival and would not be able to escort me to the pattern store. Against every ounce of his being, my dad was forced to step in and deliver me to Hancock Fabrics. Dude was not happy and I was not to forget it. We walked in and he proceeded to make a scene. First, he proclaimed that his son was there to purchase a pattern and then he made the sales lady search through each and every pattern book making sure we left no stone unturned before picking out my pants. He enthusiastically bought me an entire sewing kit complete with thimbles and a pin cushion. He made the sales lady look for one that could go on my wrist but they were out of stock. He honestly still brings that up 20 years later. Again, that’s my dad.

Moving along several years, I was out of the house and on my own and I moved into the stage of life where the father-son lunch meeting becomes a regular occurrence. I find two specific experiences indicative of lunch with dad. One time, he asked me to meet him at Subway for lunch and to talk about finances or other responsibilities that I do not excel at. I pulled up next to his Silverado pickup truck and we walked in the store. We make small talk as I place my order and watch my sandwich artist attempt perfection and I realize that my dad never ordered his sandwich. I ask him what he’s going to get and he points to the register. This sub shop already had it made and rung up when they saw him walk in. I first assume that I’ve walked into the most special, wonderful subway that ever was. Turns out that dad is now old and habitual. He eats there every single day. He at least had the damned decency to look a little embarrassed about it though.

My sister and I used to have an old stand-by for Christmas presents for dad. He has an undying passion for cafeteria food and Luby’s was his Camelot. He absolutely loved getting gift cards from there. At one point he convinced them to give him their recipe for fresh, cooked green beans. Dad and I had another lunch date and we were going to do this one Luby’s style. We grabbed our trays at the head of the line and proceeded down the bar grabbing food. I was introduced to each and every single line worker. We get to the drink station and I grab a soda and I look at my dad to see what he wants. He tells me he’s good and we pay and walk to the table. Sitting on our table is a napkin with the word “RESERVED” written in ball point pen and a tall glass of iced tea with an extra glass of ice on the side. I’m speechless but this time, dad is proud. He’s arrived. Some men have their country clubs and golf carts but my dad doesn’t need luxury. He has Luby’s, a greasy cafeteria chain with employees who treat him like a deity. Luby’s actually closed so dad really only has Subway...and this Chinese place that he used to go to on Sundays after church. He hasn’t been to a service in a while though so he skips that place because he doesn’t like being judged by the self-righteous old bitty crowd.

I could write an entire book about experiences with my dad, like the time we were at playing in the ocean at Gulf Shores, Alabama and a wave came up and knocked my mom’s bikini top off. Dad took one look and ran the other way up the beach because mom was making a scene. Tim doesn’t do scenes and neither do I.