I Hate That Bathroom Attendants Exist

I am not a fan of bathroom attendants. Maybe it is my blue collar mentality that I, a fully functional adult, can wash my hands without anyone's help, and that I don't feel like paying for the privilege of someone else doing the job for me. I was reminded of this fact when I went to some hip bar for young go-getters and had to relieve myself. 

I walked into the bathroom, and this guy is just propped up sitting on a ledge across from the urinals. I'm not gonna lie, I get stage fright at times, no shame in that, so I go into a stall and lock the damn door, because it's super weird that this dude is posted up staring at the urinals. It also gave me a moment to privately ponder bathroom attendants. 

The part that I hate most about bathroom attendants is that the job of a bathroom attendant even exists. I have no issue with the people who do it, as hey, they're making a living. But I cannot imagine anybody just doing it for extra cash, because it seems like a truly awful job. You know there are times where he is just sitting in there and listening to somebody take an awful beer shit. Sure, he's got things to spray, but you can't fully cover up that smell when it is fresh. The only positive of the gig is I'm sure you hear some hilarious drunken bro conversations going on about how they are going to punish, beat up, assault, and bazooka with their dong a lady's private parts. Still, there is no way that makes up for spending an entire night in a bathroom helping people freshen up so they can impress their chosen late-night target.

Anyway, I see this guy, and I just get bummed. He's making a living, so good for him, but I have no intention of paying him anything, because I have a wife which means I already impressed my chosen target. I try to quickly go to the sink and take care of business, but he pops up and gives me soap and puts a paper towel over my shoulder, and I give him a genuine thank you, as I appreciate him doing good work, but it is not work I am willing to pay for. 

Because, come on. Not only can I wash my hands myself, I prefer to wash my hands myself. In fact, if there is a bathroom attendant in there, I would say I am at least 50% less likely to wash my hands at all just so I don't have to deal with the awkward interaction. 

And really, is that so gross? As long as I'm not getting splashback, all I'm doing is touching my dick with my hands. My hands are WAY dirtier than my dick is. If anything, I should be washing my dick. 

Come to think of it, THAT is a service I would pay for.

I Pissed Myself Playing NBA Jam

So I set out a a goal a couple weeks ago to do three posts a week on this blog. Last week was an epic failure, as I did not post a single thing. Sure, I could use the holidays as an excuse, but honestly, I had way more free time than normal last week. I was just really lazy. To punish myself, I will share an embarrassing story.

I once pissed myself playing NBA Jam. I was far past the age where I should have been peeing my pants, but I stand by the decisions that led to this outcome.

Kirby Puckett was my favorite baseball player growing up. Because of that, my family took a little vacay up to the Twin Cities to catch a baseball game and go to the Mall of America. The baseball game was rather uneventful. Kirby Puckett nearly threw me a baseball after my brother hollered at him, but his throw went to the little douchebags to the left of us who brought gloves to the game. I also remember being along the third base line at the front of the second level and still being scared to utter anything that Kirby Puckett might hear, because he was basically a god to me at that point in my life.

Anyway, the Mall of America. I was a ten-year-old boy (Yes, I was ten at the time of this, not a big deal. Let's get past this) who had to think malls were stupid, because that's what boys do. Still, this mall was legit. It had a roller-coaster that looked safe, which was important, because I was a gigantic pussy as a child.

They also had an arcade, which is the only other thing that I remember about the world's biggest mall. NBA Jam was the hottest game at the time, and I had it all to myself to destroy the evil computer gods in basketball with my two homies, Scottie Pippen and Horace Grant. Pippen was my favorite player, so he took all the shots, while Grant was there for rebounds and moral support.

So, surprisingly, because I was a ten-year-old with limited coordination, I was kicking ass at NBA Jam. After winning like two or three games in a row, I was playing the Charlotte Hornets. I had realized that I had to pee for quite a while, but I had already put my quarters in, so I certainly couldn't leave the machine. So, there I was, ten-years-old, battling the Charlotte Hornets in a back-and-forth battle, while doing the peepee dance. As time was ticking down, I stopped doing the dance, and the pee came trickling down. I was pissing down my leg while battling Kendall Gill and Larry Johnson. I knew this was bad, but goddamn, did I want to bash in the Hornets' brains, and I really didn't want to let Scottie down. Unfortunately, I ended up losing the game. I was finally able to leave the machine and let the rest of my pee out in a urinal, you know, like most three-year-olds are able to do.

There was literally piss running down my leg at one point, and I was hoping that me wiping it away like it was sweat would be a smooth maneuver. I am assuming that at least one person from my family noticed, and I would just like to thank them for not saying anything. I have been holding this story in for 18 years, as sharing it any earlier would have probably led to a lot of lot of sessions with a psychiatrist.

Much like letting that piss out while playing NBA Jam, I feel relieved.