A few minutes ago I walked in to the bathroom. I pee so much during a day, that I've often thought that I might be pregnant. Sadly, it's never come to be. Sigh, I'm so barren.
I walked in, noticed that one of the stalls was in use, and moseyed up to one of two urinals that are seperated by a divider jutting out of the wall. I appreciate the man that first proposed the idea of the small wall extension. Without it, I would be unable to pee in public.
So, I'm standing there, cursing The Powers That Be for keeping the minute amount of water at the bottom of the urinal so fucking cold, when I heard a strange, yet familiar, sound coming from the occupied stall.
Chugga-chuggachuggachugga chuggachugga...chuggachuggachugga... chooooooo-chooooooooo
"Is that....a cell phone ringer? Oh hell no. Don't answer it. Don't answer it. Just don't answer it" I thought to myself
"Hello? Hey, how's it going?" said the man sitting on the crapper.
I stopped mid-stream and all progess made was quickly erased. I would have to start again. As he talked to some guy on the other end of the line about counting hours or some shit like that, I slowly started talking myself into being able to urinate.
"Come on, Chad. You can do it. You've been here before. You're better than this" I muttered in a mongoloid-like voice.
There was a commercial a few years back for the Special Olympics, and in it, there was a young, mentally handicapped guy laying on a weight bench. He's trying to psyche himself up for lifting a weight greater than I can probably lift, which isn't saying that much, but still impressive. With a thick tongue, he grunts out the phrase "I can do it!" Now everytime I use that phrase, I can't help but mimic him.
Finally, I'm succesful in psyching myself up to the task of peeing, and a lovely, golden stream starts flowing into the bottom of the basin. I think this is true for any man alive using a urinal, but the correct form is to attempt to hit the back wall, and not the water. If you hit the water, there's a greater likelihood of splashback, and that's no bueno.
But, I was paying more attention to the poop-talker than my own aim. I notice that the longer I hit the water, the louder the man talks. I quickly surmised that he couldn't hear over the splashing!
So, what do I do?
Pee more forcefully, of course. Directly into the water. I didn't care if my legs were drenched by the time I finished. It would be worth it.
There, in the yellow-tiled bathroom on the 2nd floor of the office building, I was witness to a beautiful dance--a wonderful back-and-forth--between the loud talker on the toilet, and the splashing of the urinal cake. Sadly, it had to end, mainly because my tank went dry, but I'd like to think I ended the relationship on a good note.
I flushed the toilet three times in succession when he was mid-sentence, walked over the sink, turned the faucet on high, washed my hands, and walked out of the bathroom, living to fight another day.