It’s 12:30 and it’s time. My body is telling me I have to go to the bathroom. #2, that is. Naturally, I walk into the bathroom. There are three stalls in the bathroom and the two outside are occupied. I know it might be awkward, but despite that I nonchalantly stroll into the middle stall and sit down. Now, you can’t take time contemplating taking the middle one: you can’t go halfway then decide the middle stall isn’t for you. You do it or you don’t. You can’t hesitate. You don’t wanna be “that guy”.
That guy, there’s one in every dorm, every floor. The guy who, when the asian food calls, won’t poop unless there is nobody in the bathroom. He likes peace and solidarity. He’s the guy who walks in head-down, and if there’s someone on the jon, looks at stalls out of the corner of his eye, does a stutter step, and proceeds to wash his hands. Like “God, I really have to wash my hands after that huge, sloppy burrito.” “Good thing there’s a sink open.” You know he’s “that guy” because he then uses the air dryer
. Everybody knows dorm bathroom air dryers never seem to actually work, to actually
dry. They just push the water around on your hands, its like a mass migration of water droplets. Like the buffalo herd run on Discovery Channel, fucking Planet Earth shit. On your hands. Anyway, he uses the dryer then takes another look around the bathroom like “maybe he’s finishing up so I can pop in before he sees me” or “Ah, I’ll just come back in five minutes, I can squeeze in a few more games of kitten cannon anyways.”
The best is when you’re the guy in the stall when he cautiously slips in. The goal is to finish before he can leave, to catch him red-handed. How? You do a little fakeout. I call it the freshman fakeout. Finish wiping and everything, then pull your pants on
while sitting down, so you have quick mobility when you stand up. So. With your pants pulled up, stand up, open the door, nearly simultaneously, and catch him mid-sprint to the far stall. Meanwhile, your toilet is flushing, automatic...bitches, so there’s some confusion going on. This confusion works in your favor. It either coerces the guy to go “oh, uh.....God...gottapoop”, to which you react inwardly, as if you pulled a Jason Bourne:
HA! Caught that cheeky bastard red-handed! Or, he just gives you that deer-in-headlights look like “Shit.” From then on it’s anyone’s guess to what will happen next, maybe a fuckin ninja battle in the bathroom, cuz somehow you’re both ninjas..... yea I don’t know, but you just don’t wanna be “that guy”
That’s why you don’t hesitate. Walk straight in, close the door, sit down, and that’s when you realize awkward the situation
really is. Especially if you’re in a dorm bathroom.
Airport bathrooms at least are more spacious in terms of stall-room, it’s rarely ever awkward in an airport bathroom. Hell, all twenty stalls could be filled in a row in the terminal bathroom, but it’s still not awkward. ‘Cuz there’s always that old chinese dude hawlking a huge fucking loogie in one, or all, of the sinks. Always. And it’s always the same guy. Every airport you go to. You could go to the bathroom in LA, get on your flight to Tokyo, and the same guy will be there. Still hawlking his big fucking loogie. No matter where you go. Fuck, you could be on vacation in Costa Rica in fifty years, walk in the Concourse C bathroom and the
same fucking guy is there. And you thought he was dead. 122 years old and still hawlking loogies that could drown a dolphin. Fucking gross. Also, it’s always loud enough to cover up any awkward noises, like deer-dropping shits. The kind you get when you don’t have enough to drink. That’s why its never awkward going in airport bathrooms. Except for the one dude who always has explosive bowel movement. Yea, that’s why you don’t eat Panda Express’s #3 combo before getting on a six hour plane ride to Tokyo.
But yea, the dorm room bathrooms. So you sit down, look at the graffiti on the door that says, “Jed’s a tard” and there’s the response just below, “Yea he likes dick.” If that has any correlation. After thinking about why Jed might be into penis, you let out a little cough of surprise. Because you can see the shoes of the dudes sandwiching you in the middle stall. Not the two dudes sandwiching you
in the middle stall, the other guys in the stalls to the left and right of you. This is where the awkwardness really sets in.
You think the shoes on the left might be Mike’s shoes, but you can’t really tell.
I’ll play it safe, won’t say anything. This compounds the matter though. The awkwardness grows exponentially by the second. You are dripping in uneasy nervousness. You don’t want to awake the sleeping giant that is the fact that all three of you are in a row; all three of you are listening to what the other is doing; all three of you are thinking the same thing. And all three of you are shitting. You wanna relieve the tension, the tension in the air, and the tension in your sphincter. You be the one to point out the elephant in the room. But you don’t. The awkwardness continues to blossom, then you realize why you came into the bathroom in the first place: to shit. Now, this is a risk. You risk-takers out there will be good at this, as well as those who take laxatives. You actually have to let it out. You pray, you think about it, then you commence, all the while hoping, under your breath muttering “I hope I drank enough water.”
So there I was, at this point in the crossroads, and luckily, for my self-esteem and overall composure, I had drank enough and continued to relieve myself, everything going well. Silently. This is the turning point in the awkwardness. The guys in the stalls next to you start to wipe, rustle, other stuff.... Dude on the left gets up, flushes and washes his hands. You obviously use this break to let out any gasps, or tension you may have built up during the whole ordeal. Then the finished guy uses the hand dryer. The only one. The one that doesn’t work. That one.
The tactic here is more of a favor to the you and the guy to your right because it severely cuts the awkwardness. Almost in half, if not in half again. This is when, if you had not had enough to drink or were afraid of unforseen plopping, you would use the droning chain-saw ruckus to excrete.
Meanwhile, sloppy burrito Joe comes back in, “Shit, my hands are still sticky from that burrito.” Walks out again.
Then the dude to the right gets up, flushes, washes his hands, gives you the dryer favor, even though your the only one in there. Common courtesy.
Now, you take your time, do whatever you do, reflect on the most awkward experience of your life, tweet about it, think what it would be like to get a blumpkin, give yourself a hlumpkin, if you’re into that.....
Then you finish up, wash your hands, and use the dryer, to prevent any awkward silent encounters on your way out. Plus, it’s like a way of punching out. I’m officially done here. On your way out, you bump into burrito Joe, “God, that burrito is not sitting well.”
No shit man.
