Wednesday, September 14, 2005


“Men are from Mars, women are from the Andromeda Galaxy.”
– Elisson
Yeah, men and women are different. But I’m not going to pound out some lengthy Sociological Treatise here. I want to talk about plumbing.

Men and women’s plumbing systems are different. [-Thank you, Captain Obvious! –Don’t mention it.]

And I’m not talking about the External Stuff, the cock ’n’ balls, the pee-pee, the burgoolie, the frint, or whatever cutesy-pie name you want to use for The Equipment. I’m talkin’ innards here.

Because men have certain...ahhh, issues that women do not. Or, if they do, they are so circumspect about these issues that the topic never crops up. Maybe it’s a Womanly Law of Omertà, that anyone who discusses certain Forbidden Topics ends up sleeping with the fishes.

I refer, of course, to the Rest Room Surprise.

Women have it easy, in a way. They simply sit down and go about their business, whatever that business may chance to be, whatever Form of Matter is involved. Sit, grunt (if necessary), wipe, and be done with it. Simple!

But us guys, we pee standing up. No sitzpinklers here, right, boys? Except in a few rare circumstances, such as the Dreaded Pee-Boner, we do not sit down to urinate. We stand, if pissin’s all we plan to do.

And sometimes, the best laid know the rest.

Maybe it’s the way our Bodily Plumbing is designed, maybe it’s the vertical posture, but releasing one set of sphincter muscles generally loosens the other set. That’s generally not a problem, although it can make for quite a symphony along a row of occupied urinals.

But sometimes, when you’re playing that ol’ Tuchus Music, you hit a Sour Note.

And that’s when you have to decide. You've got to ask yourself a question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?

That’s when the Prudent Gentleman will perform the almost impossible task of cutting off the flow in mid-stream. (For all y’all ladies, that’s a little like Superman’s old trick of eating a chunk of coal and shitting out the Hope Diamond.) And then comes what the Famously Constipated Dooce™ calls the “Clenched-Cheek Sprint.” Tough enough at home, it can be a real challenge in a public rest room.

The consequences of failure are too horrible to contemplate.

Not that this has ever happened to me.

But I don’t think this is a problem for the wimminfolk. Am I right? Or does the Law of Omertà apply?

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