Shitting In Public Sucks – Starring That Guy

I’ve Ranted about urinal etiquette before, so you have to have expected the sequel on #2. Part Two for Number Two, if you will. Yes, I’m ranting about how I dearly loathe shitting in public. Sadly, all of this screed is inspired by a well-maintained Army latrine and not the maggot-strewn abbatoir of shit you might picture, or find in your average gas station.

First of all, germs. You might think someone who’s gone without bathing for a week while living in the woods during a field exercise would be immune to thoughts about public germs. It actually only heightens the problem. I keep my own throne fairly spotless. Public facilities, of course, have no such controls or guarantees. Suffice it to say that in spite of the manic dieting, I’m a bit too big to hover.

Add to that the fact that I work with a lot of Army Civilians who are near retirement age. This makes for the only known structure in the U.S. where men must wait in line. I’ve been known, in moments of colonic distress, to pound the stall door and yell, “Put the phone away, I’m fucking crowning out here!” Just my luck, the guy hustles and I am comforted by the fact that I’m up at bat right after Sweaty Guy. The guy who is about 270 pounds and breaks a rain of sweat in winter.

Equally entertaining – and I know of no other word to describe it – are the anonymous sounds of other users that assault my ears while I back out my cargo drop.  Here is where routine functions intersect with That Guy and go horribly wrong.  A brief summary of recent highlights:

Mr. Consult a Doctor: barges into the latrine and unzips at a urinal. Moans, “Oh my God… <sucks air>… ouch… ow.” I leave without touching anything in the latrine.

Mr. Get Some Fiber: occupies the next stall, drops trou, and then groans – loudly – as he assists whatever anal stone he’s attempting to pass. Panting from his effort, he continues. This guy has clearly been to Lamaze and is adapting it to his congested situation. I sometimes suggest checking for blood after he howls like Chewbacca and wins his little battle.

Mr. Stop Eating Fiber: attains a seal next door and proceeds to unleash biological warfare on the hapless toilet. I wait for the eyewatering stench of scorched, sandblasted porcelain.  What I get is swamp gas that will ensure I won’t have to trim my nose hairs for a month.

Mr. Shoulda Used The Toilet: whips it out at a urinal, relaxes, and proceeds to issue a thirty-second ass blast.  From the violent sound of it, I picture his pants smoldering and shotgunned by hypersonic particles of poo.  Being the immature brainpan that I am, I have to stifle a belly laugh at such epic epicness.

Mr. Sound Of Music: Urinal or stall, this guy hums his own musical accompaniment.  I can’t help but think this would be pretty normal if it didn’t happen in a latrine.  If he wasn’t humming Strangers in the Night.

Men are admittedly disgusting creatures.  However, I seem to live in a small pocket of heightened disgustingness.