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Charlie Hatton
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Howdy, friendly reading person!
I'm on a bit of a hiatus right now, but only to work on other projects -- one incredibly exciting example being the newly-released kids' science book series Things That Make You Go Yuck!
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Just Don’t Ask Me to Bunt

Last night, I went out with a friend to a bar, to watch the Red Sox play lose to the Yankees finish flushing their season down the toilet.

(Bitter? Pffffft. It’s like we’ve got a bullpen full of Bill Buckners out there. Don’t even get me started.)

“People like me are why we can’t have nice toilets, you know.”

The place in question is a pretty simple Irish pub nearby. The food’s not bad, the waitstaff’s friendly enough, they pour a good Guinness, and there are plenty of TVs in both bar rooms on which to watch a game.

(Or in this case, on which to peek at a game between your fingers because you can’t bear to look directly at the carnage. Didn’t I say not to get me started?)

At some point, I made my way to the rest room for the first trip of the night. The urinals were occupied, so I moved over to the stall to take care of business. Just as I’d unzipped and was preparing to let fly, I heard a voice directly behind me. A female voice, saying:

Well, Bob, that’s what he does best, now, isn’t it?

I’m not too proud to admit that I was shaken by this sudden outburst, for several reasons. First, I didn’t see a woman in the bathroom when I walked in. And there aren’t exactly hiding places in there where one might lie in wait for unsuspecting bathroom-seeking men. Unless she was hiding in the trash can or stuffed inside the paper towel dispenser, I don’t see how I could have missed her.

Secondly, she seemed to be just a few feet behind me, and to my left — away from the other men in the bathroom. That could only mean that she was talking about me, and how this is what I do best. That gave me pause.

I’ve never considered myself a champion whizzer. Proficient, sure. I almost never miss the bowl, and only rarely hit the ceiling. But to suggest that this is what I do best was troubling, to say the least. I always thought I was a good whistler, just for instance. And I can juggle. And saying I’m better at peeing than writing? Ouch, baby. Very ouch.

Chiefly, though, I was concerned about this ‘Bob’ fellow, and why he was so interested in the reports of what I do ‘best’. If this ‘Bob’ character wants to study men in the act of urination, there are plenty of YMCA whirlpools out there where he can conduct his research. Leave me and my tinkler the hell out of it.

Finally, of course, the situation clicked. I remembered that this bar has gone to the trouble to put televisions in the bathrooms, to make sure you don’t miss a minute of the action. The woman I heard was a baseball announcer, talking about some player doing what he does best. A pitcher getting a strikeout, or a batter getting a hit, or Johnny Damon getting his sideburns shaved off because he sold out to the Evil Empire.

(Dammit, look — you got me started!

There’s always next year. Grrrr.)

See, the bar’s trying to provide a ‘value-add’ service. Heaven forbid the game should turn on a play while you’re shaking twice and zipping up, so they’ve conveniently placed a TV in the rest room for you. Behind the stall. Away from the urinals. In the back of the room.

Clearly, they didn’t think this out all that well. Sure, if you were to sit in the stall, you’d have a fantastic view of the ballgame. That’s just peachy, assuming this is the sort of place where you’d take a seat on the toilet.

This is not the sort of place where you’d take a seat on the toilet. Not if you could possibly help it, anyway. There’s way too much foot traffic going through there constantly; you’d never feel comfortable. Not to mention the jackholes like me who forget the TV is on and startle during their number ones. People like me are why we can’t have nice toilets, you know.

So the placement is all wrong. To see the television from a urinal, you have to lean back and turn nearly all the way around. Hardly a position conducive to keeping your shoes dry during a bladder purge.

And for the person in the stall — at best, it’s like a radio broadcast of the game to pass the time. At worst, it’s a disembodied personal commentary on your bathroom skills, or lack thereof. If that announcer had instead said, ‘Ooh, looks like that one doesn’t have the distance, eh, Bob?‘, I might’ve broken down in tears. That would have been unfortunate. Because we all know, there’s no crying in bathroom.

Permalink  |  2 Comments

2 Responses to “Just Don’t Ask Me to Bunt”

  1. kerry says:

    yes, i think confirms it, i know way, way, WAY too much about you.

  2. Dan says:

    It wasn’t the adventures in Boston bathrooms that I found so amusing. It was the notion that a Red Sox fan would get depressed about not making the playoffs. I am a Devil Rays fan and gave up on all hope of a winning season going into the all-star break. By the way, got any decent pitchers that will work for cheap?

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