The rationality of irrationality

Besides Motels, I think my second greatest traveling hatred would be of public restrooms. I think the worst thing about them is the horribly unnerving feeling that I get just prior to opening a public single user bathroom. I have no idea how many times I have opened a door to some guy pissing with his pants down around his knees. I generally mutter a hasty “Uhh…sorry,” and scurry away in shame. Of course, I can’t scurry away too far, as I still have to piss. The worst part about that is the post-pissing encounter, as the man leaves the bathroom. Awkwardly meeting the urinator’s eyes on the way into the restroom is a walk of shame that is unpleasant in the extreme.

Even worse when it is a scary bald pirate type with a parrot on his shoulder. No freaking joke. We stopped at some random nasty little gas station somewhere on the Coast Highway. I went inside, looking for a place to piss. The only urination accommodations were located out back in 2 porta-poties. I hate those things more than the acne that has plagued me my entire life. I can’t help but feel an extreme level of anxiety upon watching my piss arc down onto a moldering fecal mound. I always imagine getting shoved down that hole—and then subsequently finding the quickest way to extinguish my life, as I do not believe I would like to survive such an encounter with about a thousand shits and untold buckets of urine. Always gives me the creeps.

Anyhow, as I arrived at the porta-potie, my irrational fear of finding someone in there began to well within me. The door said “unoccupied.” Trusting that, I reached out and opened the door. A freaking parrot stared me in the face. Also a bald head, and a sleeveless shirt. Also parrot shit on said sleeveless shirt. This was even more awkward than the usual barging in, due to the fact that I was practically touching him upon opening the door.

“Oh…fuh…oops.”.

I could hear his piss hitting the mountain of feces as the door slammed shut.

I stood there in shame as I awaited his emergence from the poop closet. As he exited, I dared not meet his gaze. He was a pirate, after all. With poop on his shirt. Needless to say I avoid porta-poties at all costs, as they are a cause for double team anxiety.

But pretty much every public restroom is horrible. I get especially irked when they have the faucets that one has to hold down in order for the water to dispense. How is this in any way sanitary? One poops. One wipes. One likely has some form of microscopic, or scopic poop fragments upon one’s hand. One wets one’s hands, thus transferring said micro-fecal to the faucet handle, and then lathers up with the nasty, caustic public soap. After said lathering, one returns the previously clean hand to the previously infested faucet, thus negating any possible debacterializing. That was definitely not a real word. And not only one’s own poop germs, but every previous poop germ from every other filthy person who defecated there during the last week, as cleaning doubtfully occurs more often than that.

On that note, how can any sane person feel good about using the crusty, stained cloth towel rolls that so bafflingly exist in some restrooms? I really don’t care if those things are in theory washed—I refuse to wipe my hands upon something covered in yellowish brownish stains, dotted with crust spots. Who is using this thing? Obviously some people are not opposed to it, as the contraption actually exists and has been marketed as a good idea to the public restroom guild.

Please, good people of the world—when you use a single serve restroom, lock the damn door. And to those members of the American Public Restroom Guild of America, please take into consideration the banning of all pushdown faucets and rotting linen dispensers. Thank you.

ps

as i still have much to blog about from the motorcycle trip, and am currently in new york, posts may become sporadic and unorganized. deal with it.