Boy am I tired of seeing guys take a leak and leave without washing their hands. They’re leaving their penises all over the place – starting with the bathroom door-handle. Of course, the intensity of the penile smear decreases throughout the day. But who on earth urinates only once a day, restricted to the privacy of their own bathroom?
Ever seen this ridiculous sign: “Employees must wash hands.” Oh, I see: no food-industry penis in my plate! Perhaps. Yet it doesn’t matter if employees wash their hands; if customers are free to act like chimps when urinating, then the penis escapes containment and roams free once again! So what are restaurants really saying? ‘Care for some penis appetizer a la clientèle, sir?’ Bring it on.
Even within the confines my own apartment I try to keep penile spread to a minimum. It’s my private space, I know; I can make it into the grandest of shrines to the greatest of the scrotal gods if I wish so. I just could not bear the sight of my guests snatching up my penis like Velcro throughout the apartment.
Guys, is it too much to ask for? I know you – especially you circumcised males – might think your equipment is as sterile as a 10-inch thermometer (or whatever your ‘big-penis’ fantasy is), but wash your hands anyway. At least rinse them if you’re the type of person that possesses the oozing lethargy of an obese man seriously contemplating liposuction. Having your phallic ointment make indirect contact with countless strangers is simply a lack of common courtesy. At these heights, I bet even your poor grandparents have obliviously bathed with the balms of your crotch.
Fortunately, for you filthy wee-wee bandits, there’s an alternative to conventional hand-washing. I’ll call it the “Free-Willy” technique (look, no hands!). It requires some pelvic maneuvering, good aim, and a bit of luck – I say luck because although nature has granted men easy and convenient urinary manipulation (just ‘point and shoot’ in any general direction except backwards), we are never completely sure which spray setting our nozzle is on.[1]
The penis is everywhere! It’s on our hands, in our food, and perhaps even in the air. Religious zealots, beware: that’s concentrated evil on your hands, and its undermining your perverse attempts to one day establishing a sin-and-penis-free Earth. Hygiene-freaks, please stop because you’re pissing me off; there’s no escaping from germs – and you’re stupid for trying.
[1] Ladies, I know Mother Nature has not made peeing the, eh, prettiest bodily function for you: a dire need for toilet seats, lots of sprinkle and backsplash, soaked ankles out in the woods, that sort of thing. You’ll be glad to know that we males also experience similar trouble. Among several of the ‘bathroom backfires’ men must endure (and later clean up) we can find – what I call – the ‘leaky pipe’ (chaotic, multi-directional low-pressure spray), the ever-annoying ‘wayward drip’ (steady, controllable stream accompanied by fugitive vertical dripping, of which only ONE of the two can make it into the bowl), the ‘rebellious teenager’ (bursts out the doorway in the wrong direction, but with a little extra exertion and pressure can be forced back onto the right path), and the beautifully perplexing yet incredibly messy ‘golden fork’ (bifurcation of the stream; twin jets of uric fury showering everything at a 90° angle).
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