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Friday, May 25, 2007
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Rules of Urinal Engagement
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As a man, there are many situations we encounter with other men that can be deemed awkward and unusual, creating uncomfortable silences or eliciting immediate talk about football or pussy. Things such as; drawing attention to a piece of decor that has been added to your living room accentuating the drapes; telling another man his haircut looks great; hanging out with a guy who thinks the pink shirt fad is cool; or simply making the slightest inadvertent contact with another man's hand when you're walking next to him. Its these situations that make men cringe, creating the heeby-jeeby's and sleepless nights. These are the moments that keep therapists in business. We're all bound to experience them at one time or another, but dread the sheer thought of ourselves being the perpetrators of these situations.
One of the more delicate scenarios in a man's existence can be encountered in a place we cannot avoid as the necessity of human function requires it. It's called the restroom, the can, the john, the pisser, mom's kitchen...whatever you may call it, the purpose of this room is the same. When you gotta go, you gotta go. There is an obvious but distinct difference between a men's restroom and a women's restroom which alters the experience significantly. Tampon slot machines and "feminine waste" containers aside...which I suppose is about as awkward and uncomfortable as it gets, not to mention downright eerie and nasty...men face an experience that can be considered uncomfortably personal if not played right.
Women have the distinct luxury of solidarity in their restroom experience as they are cordoned off in individual stalls like horses in a stable. Fortunately piles of poop resting in mounds of hay has given way to plumbing and much more sanitary means of waste disposal (with the exception of the aforementioned "feminine waste containers", or "poon boxes" as I refer to them). This level of privacy most certainly creates an element of comfort and relaxation, allowing the flow of whatever substance is exiting to do so freely and with ease. It's a temporary barrier from the world around you, a few brief minutes of peace...or 30-45 minutes depending on what you ate for lunch. And because the stall is the only option in the restroom experience of a woman, the need to maintain the cleanliness of the throne in which you squat is paramount. For men unfortunately...Well let's just say our experience is as different as men and women themselves.
Going back to these "awkward" situations between men, none is more prevalent and unavoidable than a trip to the urinal. Standing less than 3 feel from another man whilst both of your dicks are whipped out sheltered only by hand that guides it...now THAT'S peace and comfort!! We are the unfortunate breed who are not afforded the sanctity of our own urination luxury boxes. Yes I know, most women will bitch that they have no choice but to squat and our ability to stand is a gift in itself. Well to that I say...OK you're right, it is pretty badass. But for every gift of badass-ness, there is a price that must be paid.
There are unwritten "Rules of Engagement" when using a restroom urinal. Rules that you must heed to not only relieve yourself, but to survive. The fact that rules even exist to answer the call of Mother Nature is in itself cruel, but it is a daunting task we as men must face...the sacrifice for sweet release.
For whatever sick, twisted and perverse reason most men's restrooms contain an odd number of urinals. Who devised this urinary schematic should be shot. I'm assuming it was either a woman or a gay man. First Rule of Engagement, if you are blessed with an empty restroom (cue Halleluiah chorus), always...ALWAYS choose the urinal on the farthest left or right. This not only affords you the comfort and peace of mind knowing your personal space will be upheld for the duration of your experience, it is an expected courtesy to those who may enter thereafter. Tactically it leaves only one exposed side to defend. DON'T be the guy who is standing in the middle of an empty row, no one likes "that guy". You might as well have a sign on your back that says, "Waiting for Strange Cock".
Should you enter a restroom with sporadic urinal occupancy, always go with the "every other urinal" rule, NEVER taking a urinal directly next to a man when it is not absolutely necessary. Life and death, my bladder is about to explode necessary. This is the same philosophy used when determining seating when seeing movies with a group of guys (which in itself is a questionable decision). If every other urinal is taken you have 2 choices:
1. Find a stall. Every attempt should be made to avoid being a urinal neighbor. If the stalls are taken by other wise gentlemen who follow the Rules of Engagement you can do as I do and head to the sink to pre-wash your hands, buying time for the appropriate spot to open. Rule of thumb, do not wait behind a man who is doing his business. It's creepy, it adds pressure and its voyeuristic in a way that should only be reserved for S&M gay bars.
2. Suck it up and join the herd.
Should you find yourself filling a void next to, or worse, in between two guys, a whole new situation presents itself. Peeing next to another guy is a battle of mind over matter as well as intense discipline. To me it's the equivalent of a porn star who is being directed to give the money shot with little to no notice. Cameras rolling and 15 people staring...waiting. You simply freeze up and the floodgates are slammed shut. It becomes particularly difficult when the restroom is small and silent. You want to drain that bad boy quick and get the hell out, but the pressure to put a rush delivery on the stream only hastens the process. When I am personally faced with this dilemma I simply close my eyes and envision myself of a deserted beach peeing freely into the ocean as the waves crash around me and the breeze tickles my nads. Always does the trick.
Once the flow is a go, there are rules that must be followed:
Eyes forward! Never, under any circumstances, look anywhere but straight ahead or down at your dick. You should know your dick better than the alphabet through the intense observation required from your urinal experience. Should you have the tremendous fortune of having a blessed divider between you and your pee neighbor this task should be much easier and the experience far less stressful; but the significance of The Rules of Engagement are never to be diminished, lax, or downplayed. The result could be catastrophic.
If you find yourself in a cheap and evil establishment that wouldn't front the measly bill for a damn 2 inch thick 4x2 foot piece of wood, leaving only the air between you, you've gotta be on the ball.
Wait a minute, on second thought scratch that. Stay the hell away from the ball. EYES FORWARD! Study flecks of paint finding ones that resemble silhouettes of cast members from Gilligan's Island; look through the wall like it's one of those 3-D pictures that make you cross-eyed; memorize the "for a good time call" phone number on the wall (calling it later is optional and acceptable in moments of desperation); stare at that wall it as if it had a picture of the most beautiful woman you've ever laid eyes on laying spread eagle on the hood of the hottest car you can imagine (whatever you do, DO NOT sport wood with this thought). Total focus, undeterred like a laser beam. If you happen to be cursed with exceptional peripheral vision, sucks to be you, close your lids fish eyes. You may not want to look, but you'll see.
Don't talk! There is no excuse, reason, or rationale for urinal chat. There are no barstools or TV's in here, and I'm not your shrink, your buddy, or your priest (if I was your priest I'd have your dick in my hand by "hello"). If this rule isn't a documented law, then our great nation is worse off than I thought. I'm here to piss, our dicks are in our hands, I'm focusing on peeing freely in the ocean, this isn't Oprah...save it for your boyfriend Dr. Phil.
These are but a few of the simple but critical rules for the male restroom experience. If you follow them correctly you'll get out of the restroom with not only your dignity, but your manhood. Treat your restroom visit like a mafia hit is going on at the table next to you. Sure you can clearly see Vinny No Thumbs choking Johnny the Snitch to death but, "you know nothing and you see nothing"...eyes in your plate. Enjoy your fucking linguine. This is why men have incredible bladder control, we are trained to contain.
So you see, its sometimes a delicate task for a man to heed the call of Mother Nature. And forget about #2. No man shall shiteth in a public restroom. The only exception being a disguised fart that spilled a little somethin' somethin' in your drawers. It's already there and you've gotta let it go. And explosive diarrhea is a given. The necessity of stall use to avoid being a pee neighbor essentially makes toilets enclosed urinals. Blind quadruple amputees have better aim than the atrocities that lie everywhere but the inside the bowl. The regard for toilet cleanliness is non-existent in a stall and no level of colon pressure can justify squatting on those bad boys.
So women, as you wait in the inevitable queue lines that snake a path hundreds of feet from your restroom entrance, always remember that your patience and time shall be rewarded with an experience that would be deemed heavenly and immaculate by men's standards. For us there are rules to follow, strategies to be plotted, movements, mannerisms, actions and reactions to be monitored and calculated, and even when you play the game right there is no guarantee you will have fulfilled the purpose of your visit. Unless of course you have your own beach to get you through...but it sure as hell better not be MY beach because if you so much as LOOK at my beach while I'm pissing in my ocean I will kick your ass!!!
I leave you with the words of a bathroom attendant I saw in a club years ago after every man finished his business,
"Don't forget to wash that dick off yo hands!" |
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posted by Boyce
9:06 PM
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Thursday, May 24, 2007
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Dead Beat Dad
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I stumbled upon this amongst my vast collection of writing when I apparently needed to vent about the Dad who never was.
You had a chance to prove yourself, to show what you’ve become- You had a chance to save yourself, to face up to what’s been done. You had your chance, you took a breath, just for a minute in your wake- Your one fleeting moment to do what’s right, to realize what’s at stake. You looked inside your shallow soul, so narrow and incomplete- And somewhere within those thoughts inside you, you proved that you were weak. The space of conscience between thought and action evaded you that day- So you packed your shit and hit the road, and forever went away. How do you look back on all you’ve done…accomplished, strived for, and attained? When the shadow you cast on those innocent souls, forever caused them pain. No matter how far you go, nor the mountains you climb, every step has been a lie- For the skeletons you’ve cast and the demons you’ve created are far too great to hide. So carry on this path you’ve forged, while the baggage may seem light- Your burdens few, your independence wide, an endless horizon in sight. For the path you travel is lit from behind you, by what you’ve created in your past- And forever as your soul shall walk this earth, you’ll be faced with the shadow you’ve cast. |
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posted by Boyce
11:59 PM
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Sunday, May 20, 2007
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The Superstition of Sports
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I remember it as if it were yesterday...May 20th, 2007. Wait, that was yesterday.
January 11, 2004...the Philadelphia Eagles are up against the Green Bay Packers in the NFC Divisional Playoff game. The Eagles had just commenced a stellar 12 win, 4 loss season claiming 10 victories over their last 11 games. The Packers of Green Bay finished off their season with a respectable 10 win and 6 loss record and were seemingly outmatched against a deep and well rounded Philadelphia squad. Philly was playing a sub-par game and found themselves trailing 17-14 with less than a minute left in the game. The Eagles were driving to get into field goal range in a desperate attempt to salvage what had up until this moment been a strong season. As QB Donovan McNabb dropped back to pass, the entire city of Philadelphia felt the prick of a rusty hand crafted prison shank pierce their lungs, deflating all hope of a Super Bowl year. McNabb was sacked for a 16 yard loss. 4th down, an insurmountable 26 yards to go.
As I sat there in complete shock and disbelief, tears started to well in my eyes. How could this be? Were we cursed? Had we pissed off God THAT bad? Why were we being handed down this cruel twist of fate?
The Eagles exited their huddle looking like someone had stepped on the heads of their new puppies. And as McNabb took center I saw it out of the corner of my eye. The remote control had been moved! It was no longer pointing Northeast!! Before the ball was snapped I dove to the coffee table and readjusted it's position. The ball was then snapped, McNabb was patient in the pocket looking for an open receiver...time slowed to a crawl. He scrambled to avoid being sacked once more and launched a bullet up the middle of the field to wide receiver Freddy Mitchell. Mitchell absorbed the pass and was hammered on the spot. The pass gained 27 yards. First down!!! The Eagles marched down the field and tied the game, eventually winning in overtime. That play would forever be heralded in Philadelphia sports history as "4th and 26". It was a moment that t-shirts were made after. And this bit of history would never have been had I not caught the misaligned remote.
August 23rd, 1993...Phillie vs. Mets. The Phillies were clinging on to a tight divisional lead as the playoffs approached. The rival New York Mets were hot on their trail. In a pitchers duel between Doc Gooden and Curt Schilling the Mets had a 2-1 lead going into the 9th. Gooden was on fire as he struck out 12 batters on the day. Going for a complete game he walked lead off hitter Lenny Dykstra with 2 outs in the 9th bringing up Darren Daulton. Daulton was down in the count, 0 balls 2 strikes. Gooden had owned Daulton all game striking him out 2 times prior to this at bat. The game was looking bleak. The frustration and desperation was plastered all over his face. "What the hell is up with Daulton?", I thought to myself. Then it all became clear. I was sitting on the wrong end of the couch. The entire game I had been sitting on the same side of the couch I sat on when the Phillies blew a 5 run lead to the Pirates just weeks earlier. How could I have been so foolish!! I quickly darted to the correct cushion, Gooden winds up, fast ball inside...CRACK...gone!!! The 2 run homerun by Daulton won the game for the Phils who eventually went on to the World Series.
Few things are more gratifying than knowing you did your part to help your team avert defeat. Whether it's wearing the same clothes you had on the last time your team won...perhaps refusing to wash them in between. Inviting the same people over and positioning them in the same place they were in last game...and kicking out those who weren't there before without a second thought. Turning wall pictures upside down, eating dinner for breakfast and breakfast for dinner, counting the number of steps to and from the bathroom maintaining the same count each time, growing your playoff beard, or placing your team hat on top of the TV, these "superstitions" play a role in the outcome of games that few people truly understand.
Just this past weekend I had the tremendous misfortune of witnessing a very dear friend lose the Preakness Stakes and to a certain degree I feel partly responsible. A week earlier the Kentucky Derby ran and he was monumentally victorious, breaking a 5 year drought of picking the winner of this sacred race. As we set up for the Preakness the coffee table was moved to the side as it had during the Derby, we sat in the same seats as we did a week earlier, we wore the same clothes, the surround sound was turned on and at the exact numerical volume level as before. Everything was a clone for this race as it was the last. With one glaring exception...my wife had a friend over. As she walked in the door an hour before the race something inside me felt off. Would her presence throw off what we had so meticulously recreated? I eventually dismissed the idea and wondered if my friend had thought the same.
As the race ended in the most gut-wrenching defeat we began to ponder what went wrong. We eventually both crossed paths at the fact that this additional individual had been present. It all became glaringly clear. I knew in my heart I should have kicked her out at the first sight of her, but I didn't react to my most primal of sports instincts, to follow your superstitious vibes as if they are the word of God.
A very valuable and equally painful lesson was learned this day, further proving the point that these little intricacies have a profound impact on the sporting world. Never again shall I brush aside these gut feelings. I should have known better. I've followed this philosophy religiously all my life and the results have spoken for themselves.
There are certain things you just don't mess with in this world; speeding freight trains, women who are PMS'ing, hungry alligators, naked black men with "Man Lover" tattooed on their foreheads, gravity, the IRS...and sports superstitions. Now if I can only figure out how to rearrange my bedroom furniture to land an Eagles Super Bowl win, I can die a happy man. |
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posted by Boyce
7:34 PM
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Thursday, May 17, 2007
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Agreeing to Disagree
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There are many things in this world of ours that test us and taunt us in a manner which can create a mountain of self doubt and the feeling that what we feel and where we stand is invalid and inconsequential. Each of us is unique in that we react, emote and are conditioned to respond to various situations in a multitude of different ways. Any one given instance, event, or action can result in nearly every response and reaction imaginable depending on the individual. This is the beauty of being an individual…who we are and what we feel is unique unto us. It is ours, and whether perceived as right or wrong it is no less significant or meaningful because others may not see it that way. We are all bred and ingrained with “buttons” that when pushed send a surge of emotion that trumps all others. Perhaps they are rooted from our upbringing, or created by moments in our past that forge mechanisms of defense, fight, or flight. They are meant to protect, they are meant to alert, and they are even mean to entice and arouse. Some of us have more of these “buttons” than others, but regardless of how many we possess and the functions of them each, they are ours and they serve a purpose for a reason that is our own. Agreeing to disagree is a common ground without a common view, a compromise forged when a stalemate has been reached and two sides remain planted firmly in their ideas, actions, morals, or beliefs. While one side may not necessarily agree with the stance of the other, agreeing to disagree can take 2 paths when this situation presents itself. The first is to Respectfully Agree to Disagree. While the two sides may not see eye-to-eye, the opinions of each can be generally understood by one another as they attempt to put the shoe on the other foot to better comprehend the stance of one another. These topics are generally less controversial than most, typically inciting less passion or fanaticism in the debate. Topics such as; white vs. wheat, Rocky I vs. Rocky III, or Brunettes vs. Red-heads (Redheads baby…read-heads). While Respectfully Agreeing to Disagree debates can be quite heated, they generally do not create stubborn blindness and a refusal to see where the other side is coming from. The second is to Begrudgingly Agree to Disagree. These tend to be the doosies…the whoppers that incite riots, rampages and mayhem. OK, perhaps that’s taking it a bit far but these debates nonetheless create an absolute refusal of both sides to see, understand, or accept the stance of the other. These debates are commonly referred to as taboo in most conversational situations and can range from the abortion debate, religion, gay marriage, politics, and cannibalism (tastes like chicken!). These are the untouchables, the topics that are carved in stone, the unwritten laws that hold firm and steadfast in the individual regardless of what opinion, idea, or philosophy may counter it. “The sky is blue and no matter what you try to tell me or convince me otherwise it will be that way…PERIOD! Don’t even try it because I’m not budging!” And as the other side twitches in befuddlement, stirring in an incomprehensible stupor, they must settle, and like it or not…Begrudgingly Agree to Disagree. To me, this is the beauty of individualism. The fact that regardless what our feelings and beliefs may be, they are our own. And they are so to the point where we stand our ground on them, firm and solid. Whether its faith, belief or hardcore fact, we have come to this conclusion for a reason. And that conclusion is now a part of who we are. Our ideals, visions, beliefs, morals, thoughts, ideas…our conclusions, make us the individuals we are. And while some may be deemed stubborn, ignorant, or blind in the views they possess, the strength in maintaining your respective stance only deepens the significance they hold. Every day minds are changed and ideas are presented that shed new light on subjects that were once thought to be in essence, law. An open mind, regardless of how firm our stance may be is the key to approaching situations of conflict or debate. But every so often when the volleys are lobbed back and forth, each time hitting a wall as thick as the one it rooted from, the decision must be made to Agree to Disagree. When faced with this situation, remember that no matter now passionate or intense your opinion or view may be, the other side has come to their conclusion for a reason. It may be a reason you will never comprehend or understand, but the reason for their conclusion is no less valid or legitimate than your own. That is the beauty of Agreeing to Disagree. The beauty of compromise. If you don’t like it, you can go fuck yourself. |
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posted by Boyce
10:25 PM
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Wednesday, May 16, 2007
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Brain Drano
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I've been in a God-awful writing slump lately and to tell you the truth its beginning to piss me off. I've written dozens upon dozens of paragraphs over the past 2 weeks force-feeding my fingers to type things that simply don't exist in my brain. These droughts are nothing new to me as I have a tendency to have bursts of thoughts and ideas where I can crank out 4-5 blogs a week like some assembly line processing good old fashioned boxes of brain flakes. Then, without warning I hit a brick wall. The valve is shut, the lights are turned off, and the WELCOME WE'RE OPEN sign is slowly flipped over to SORRY WE'RE CLOSED as the credits role and the exit music plays.
Perhaps I spout out too much too soon. Maybe I should learn to pace myself. Slow and steady wins the race right? Bullshit. When you have a thought, rant or desire to purge you've gotta go full force. With the inner workings of my mind I've gotta grab what's in there and hold on to it for dear life. Too many brilliant ideas have come and gone like puffs of smoke from a finely crafted glass bong. But those days are done, and with them the excuses for low productivity. So its time to get my ass in gear and rise to the occasion!! What occasion you ask? Well lets take a look at how insane the world has become. These are but a few of the actual "occasions" for the month of May:
Asian/Pacific American Heritage Month
Mental Health Month
Allergy/Asthma Awareness Month
National Good Car Keeping Month
National Strawberry Month
National Chocolate Custard Month
Foot Health Month
National Physical Fitness and Sports Month
National High Blood Pressure Month
National Hamburger Month
Arthritis Month
Better Sleep Month
Correct Posture Month
National Salad Month
Older Americans Month
National Barbecue Month
National Bike Month
National Mine Month
National Egg Month
National Artisan Gelato Month
National Asparagus Month
National Macaroon Day
National Salad Month
National Salsa Month
National Share A Story month
I shit you not. These are all legit. This is what the month of May represents. Screw the April showers that bring May flowers, there is Artisan Gelato to recognize!! And you WILL recognize!! First there was Black History Month and now THIS?? Our penchant for drawing attention to the useless and mundane has reached new heights. Bravo America...BRA-FUCKING-VO!!
Now that you've all been injected with that dose of brilliance (my apologies), on to the point I intended to write many, many tangents ago...
I was watching a show on the National Geographic Channel yesterday about the history of Suicide Bombers...or The Cult of Suicide Bombers as they craftily deemed it. Back in the mid 80's some geniuses in the Middle East contrived the idea of using their own people as human weapons against their enemies. Truthfully, its not a bad scheme if you look at it from a tactical standpoint. They caught not only their enemies off guard, they caught the world off guard. Young men and women are brainwashed under the guise of martyrdom, ingrained with the belief that their acts are honorable, heroic and will please their god sending them to an eternal paradise. They later went on to throw in the "12 virgins await you in heaven" as a sweetener to the deal. Its the same concept "NOW WITH MARSHMALLOWS" had with Alphabets Cereal. Even martyrdom needs to stay up to date with the fads of the kids, and the kids love them some virgins!
As the "craft" of suicide bombing evolved, they soon upgraded to car bombs and truck bombs. Equally evasive and inconspicuous but with hundreds of times they destructive power. Crafty little towel heads...crafty! As I'm watching the videos of these pieces of sand sludge videotape the "missions" from a distance, a few of them tickled my fancy in a way that suicide bombings really shouldn't...but they did.
Johnny Jihad is driving a nondescript truck hauling ass to catch up with a bus full of Jewish settlers. Being ever-alert and rightfully on edge, these brave (insane?) bus drivers are always aware and vigilant of such attempts. So the driver of the bus sees what's transpiring and proceeds to haul ass through the valley. Much to the dismay of Johnny Jihad (JJ) whose truck is packed so full of explosive goodies he simply cannot catch up. Presumptuously distraught and eager for martyrdom (after all, I bought this jumpsuit for death and I'm not about to return it!), JJ abandons his chase and seeks a new target. Off in the distance a checkpoint of Jewish soldiers catches his eye. YUMMY! Fortunately they've witnessed this cat and mouse chase and are prepared for what lies ahead. As JJ speeds toward the checkpoint, the 4 soldiers manning their post haul ass in every direction. And in the blink of an eye - BAM!!!! A massive explosion rocks the area. The shock wave covers and area of 500 feet and a cloud of smoke plumes hundreds of more feet in the air. The damage...no one dead, no one injured, not even so much as a broken nail.
Johnny Jihad died for naught. SUCKER!! These are the stories that make me giggle with glee. The horror and insanity of a suicide bomber does indeed have a humorous side to it...those who fail. I envision the preparation, the prayers, the goodbyes, the coaching and coaxing, the time, effort, sweat and tears. So much invested, so much hope, so much evil...and they fucked it up. Morons.
Every cloud has a silver lining, and this my friends is the silver lining of the suicide bomber. There are those who are bound to fail, and the more destruction and terror they cause, the more it amplifies the hilarity of their shortcomings.
Where I went with this blog may be questionable, tasteless, or simply "HUH?" My point isn't really to make a point, rather this is my way of unclogging the pipes. The usual flow, direction and substance I try to maintain has been chucked out the window to get the cogs in motion once again. So don't hold this one against me or use it as a reference for future literary compilations of the 21st Century. More will follow...hopefully soon. Should it not....well.....shit.
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posted by Boyce
7:56 PM
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