Little Big Man

I'm a little guy.

On a good day, when gravity isn't being too dickish, I totter around at a vertigo-soothing five feet six inches.

Undertall for an average adult man, to be sure.

But hey, what are you gonna do? Genes are genes. They line up how they line up. No point getting fussed about it.

Unlike a lot of short guys, though, I've never been one to get overly hung up on my lack of verticality. No Napoleon Complexes for me, thanks.

Why?

Probably because, while I've always been a little guy, I've also always been a pretty big guy.

Which is to say, what I lack in height, I more than make up for in breadth.

Visual Approximation:

This. Except my cape isn't as fancy.
Also, I'm much blockier.

I've always been broad. Cartoonishly so. Even when I was thin. (Check that. "Thin" isn't really a thing I can be.) "Unfat" I suppose.

When I hit puberty it was like somebody yanked the ripcord on an airplane escape raft. Almost overnight, muscle sprouted everywhere. I went from a scrawny little spider monkey of a child ... to a lowland gorilla of a teen.

Sturdy. Burly. Dense. Thick.

I have the type of body that's built for pulling a plow. Like a Shetland pony crossed with a Clydesdale.

So even at my unfattest, I'm still absurdly broad.

Like a mailbox made of meat.

I honestly don't know how they got this photo of me without skin. I almost always have skin.

I'm often reminded of a great throw-away joke from Cheers:

WOODY

What are you up to, Mr. Peterson?

NORM

My ideal weight, if I were eleven feet tall.



Which pretty much sums up the relationship I've had with my body since about the age of 10. (By the way, some quick back-of-the-envelope math says my ideal height would be about 8'4".)

So I wasn't hugely surprised when the doctor turned to me and said:

"You are morbidly obese."

"Saywhatnow?"

(Okay, I was pretty surprised.)

"Morbidly obese."

"Morbidly?"

"Yup."

"As in--"

"Yup."

Jeez. I knew I'd paunched up a little in recent years, but it's not like I'm one of those poor souls that have to be cut out of their houses by the fire department.

"Just out of curiosity ... where are you getting those numbers?" I asked.

"Your BMI."

"Ah."

"That's Body--"

"Body Mass Index. Right. The chart. I'm familiar with its work."

"I'm sorry, but your pie chart seems to be composed entirely of pie."

Now, I'm not saying the chart is bullshit. It's a generalized tool meant to help a broad spectrum of people get healthier. I have no quarrel with that.

And I'm also not denying that I'm significantly "well-marbled" right now.

It's just that, if you're built like me -- and god help you if you are -- that chart doesn't really "work."

It doesn't factor in muscle mass or bone density or frame. So if you're a dense meat brick like myself, the numbers get a little squiffy.

According to the BMI chart, a fella of my height ought to be tipping the scales at roughly HALF of my current weight.

It's true -- I really do need to drop some weight. (I'm planning to shed about 50 pounds of unneeded girth over the next year.) But the BMI chart would prefer I drop a ludicrous 130!

This is not a thing that is likely. Nor is it -- without considerable assistance from a serious consumptive disorder and at least two amputations -- even remotely possible.

At the recommended 135 pounds, you'd be able to see every bone in my body. Every rib, every vertebrae, all my teeth ... Even the microscopic bones inside my eardrums.

Probably.

Look, I know my body. I've been lumbering around inside it for the past 45 years. At 190 pounds I'll have a pretty respectable six-pack. At 135 I'd be horrifying. Like, Christian-Bale-in-The-Machinist horrifying.

So, what I'm saying is ... if I can land in the neighborhood of 200 pounds ... that'll do, pig. That'll do.

"Hey kids! It's Mr. Bulky! Enjoy my thickness, won't you? I certainly don't!"

So while I try not to take the whole BMI thing too personally ... it does jab a pointy stick straight into one of my emotional sore spots.

Like I said at the top, I've never been hung up about being short.

But I've long been hung up about being wide.

I may not be tall, but I'm physically obtrusive.

Put simply ... I'm in your way.

It's an issue I've had my entire adult life. Even in the salad days of my 20s and 30s. Back before the washboard turned into a washtub.

I've always been in your way.

This is especially vexing for me because I consider Personal Space to be sacrosanct. A right guaranteed by the Constitution. Or the Magna Carta. Or at least by the unwritten, but widely agreed upon Social Contract. We are all entitled to our own physical buffer zone. I don't want you in mine, and I sure as hell don't want to be in yours.

Trouble is, when you're essentially a slow-moving man-hassock, it's near impossible to stay out of everybody's buffer zones.

I don't want to be in your way ... desperately so ... but my thickness makes a hypocrite of me. A fact that drives me more than a little nuts.

At all times, I'm acutely aware of the space I take up.

I twist and I contort, but I just can't help it. I'm physically obtrusive. I'm in your way.

"Sorry."
(sigh)

When you're broad, the world just isn't designed for you. Restaurant booths, crowded sidewalks, escalators, theater seats, not so crowded sidewalks, subways, buses, trains -- any kind of public transit, really -- it's all gonna be uncomfortable somehow.

I can't squeeze through a subway turnstile unless I twist sideways. I can't walk down the aisle of my commuter train without having to bob and weave to keep my shoulders from bouncing off the heads of everybody on the damn train as I trudge past.

Even those little "modesty" partitions they put between urinals to keep guys from spraying urine all over one another are too narrow for my ridiculous shoulders. I either have to stand further back (not recommended), or wedge myself in at a 45 (also not recommended). Hell, if men's public restroom toilet stalls weren't universally horrifying places, I'd consider doing all my peeing in there. But then, there's usually not enough room in those things for me to turn around either.

And as you'd expect, air travel is particularly fraught with miseries.

There's nothing quite so dispiriting as that grim, crestfallen look that settles over your seatmate's face when they realize the wide, rhinoceros-shaped guy squeezing down the aisle is headed for the seat next to them.

It sucks pretty hard knowing that your mere physical existence is causing other people discomfort.

I always try for an aisle seat so at least one shoulder can hang over the side. (Which then gets clipped by every single person heading to and from the toilet. Not to mention the bruises from the drink cart.) Then, in order to clear the arm rest, I clamp my hands in my armpits and cross my arms high across my chest for the duration of the flight. Worst case scenario, I also have to keep my torso twisted at a 45 degree angle the whole time.

When you're thick-set, the world is a neverending Parent/Teacher Night and you're crammed into those little kindergarten desks wherever you go.

Then, of course, there's the fact that I commute into Manhattan from Jersey every day. A voyage teeming with thousands of some of the most aggressive, impatient and hostile humans on the planet.

(I've said it before and I'll say it again: When we get the news that the asteroid is coming and the world is about to end, commuters will be the first ones to start with the cannibalism. Even before the asteroid hits. And even if they've just had lunch. Just to be dicks.)

I'm in their way. And they hate me for it.

I can feel their loathing searing into me as they push, shove and desperately scramble to get around, over and away from me at all costs. All the while, resenting the utter volume I occupy.

Every.

Single.

Day.

And it sucks.

Penn Station. 7th Avenue and 32nd Street, New York, NY 10001

(True, they pretty much hate every other living soul, too, but that doesn't make you feel any better about it in the moment.)

Buying clothes is exactly as vexing as you'd expect, too.

Well, buying nice clothes, at any rate. There really isn't a rack off of which I can buy formal wear. This is why I'm almost always seen wearing cargo shorts/pants and t-shirts. I just buy a double or triple XL in everything and roll it up.

The good news is, I'm mercifully through the gauntlet of all my friends' first marriages. There was a stretch in my 30s where I was asked to be in about a dozen weddings in a row. The chief indignity of renting a tuxedo when you're anvil-shaped is that you will endure more fittings and alterations than the bride. And when you're done, it's still going to look like shit and be crazy uncomfortable.

I remember once trying to buy a suit jacket at a Men's Warehouse and having a great deal of trouble finding one to fit me across the chest and back. (Nevermind the foot and a half they'd need to chop off the sleeves.)

The sales clerk, who clearly wished he was somewhere else, tried to hurry me along. He made no effort to hide his disdain. (His name, if I recall, was something like Smuggy McFuckStick, but I could be mis-remembering that.)

"I think I need more room through the shoulders and upper arms. It feels like I'm going to rip right out of it if I move wrong."

"Well, I don't think it's meant for wearing to the gym," he smirked condescendingly.

"Well, I don't think it would be appropriate if it splits up the back while I'm carrying the coffin," I shot back.

He didn't say much after that.

And yes. One of the armpits did rip out during that funeral. But fortunately, no one noticed.

Except me.



So, yeah ... the point is ... I'm sorry for being in your way.

Maybe someday I'll figure out how to get out of mine.






Till next we meet ...





(Total side note: If we have Big & Tall stores why don't we have Short & Thick stores? Humans CAN be big without being tall, people. It's Science.)

(Seriously, how great would it be to have a shop that specifically carried short and thick sizes? How great? Very great. And it should be called "Napoleon's Complex." And I would totally shop there all the time.)

Sorry, Drew Barrymore.

"IF YOU CAN START FIRES WITH YOUR MIND, PLEASE DO NOT USE THE WASHING MACHINE"

Thank you,
--The Management




Till next we meet ...

Getting The Finger

"It'll be okay," the doctor said with a wry smile. "I have thin fingers."

He didn't, though.

He really didn't.

I'd taken note of them when we'd met and shaken hands not twenty minutes prior.



The thing about hitching a ride on this good earth as she lazily rolls ever onward on her belly ... is that the more she rolls, the more each of us cracks and crumbles just a little bit under her weight.

This is not a revelation, of course. That's mortality for you. Time and tide, they say. Happens to the best of us.

One day you're ten years old, playing pick-up baseball in the vacant lot around the corner from your house, and the next ... well, you look up and you're smack in the middle of middle age.

And when that day comes, you'd better be ready for a stranger with a wall of diplomas to be two knuckles deep in your ass.

And hopefully, for your sake, that stranger will be a doctor.

"Number 1? I don't mean to tell you your job, Doc, but if #1 is what you're looking for, you've got the wrong hole."

For the purposes of our discussion, I consider the Stages of Life to break down into 30-year chunks as follows:

0-30: YOUNG

30-60: MIDDLE AGED

60-90: OLD

90+: THE BONUS ROUND

By that reckoning, since I was essentially within hours of my 45th birthday last week, that put me dead smack in the exact geographical middle of middle age. I was straddling, almost to the minute, the International Date Line between the first and (hopefully) second half of my life.

So I knew what to expect at this check-up. And I really thought I had prepared myself for it. I thought I had steeled myself. Thought I was ready.

After all, that's his job, I reasoned. And he'd be a bad doctor if he didn't do his job.

Did I want him to be a bad doctor? No. No, of course not.

The rest of the physical had gone off without a hitch. Nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, it was going pretty well so far.

Still, I knew he was going to say it. And when those words inevitably came, I told myself, I was going to take everything in stride and behave like an adult.

"I'm gonna need you to drop your shorts and bend over the exam table," he said, snapping on a rubber glove.

Boom.

There it was.

(sigh)

Ok.

Here we go.

Everything's fine.

We've prepared for this.

Tooootally ready for it.









"It works better if you back up into it."









Um ...








"I'm sorry?"

"It works better."

"If I ..."

"Yes."

"... back ..."

"If you back up into it, yes."








Huh.









I was expecting the "drop your shorts" part ... but ...

What the shit?!

Did it really work better? Or was was he just lazy. (Both could be true, I suppose.)

Now, I'm no medical expert, so I can't speak to the clinical efficacy of the "backing up" technique. But can tell you that the chaotic hot-air popper of thoughts suddenly ping-ponging around the inside of my skull at that moment were equal parts confusion, alarm and surprise with a liberal dash of "wait-what-now?".

In the course of just a few seconds, without a single rehearsal, I rocketed from being a reluctant audience member in our gross little play, to the headliner with his name on the marquee.

I was suddenly complicit in the act. I was the one doing it, not him.

Because technically, he didn't stick his finger up my ass ... I shoved my ass all over his finger!

(Which, incidentally, would make the most horrifying Peanut Butter Cup commercial ever.)

"Show me on the doll where the chocolate touched your peanut butter."

So while my mind spun, trying and failing to grapple with a panicky miasma of irrational thoughts, my body dutifully just backed up and got on with it.

Boop!

My brain had essentially short-circuited and needed a second to reboot and my body took over. By the time my mental start-up screen returned, he was snapping off his glove.

Was it --? Was that ... it?

He couldn't possibly be done with his traumatic, invasive plunging about. No way. I must have mis-heard. He must be snapping on a second glove because this was about to get extra horrible. After all, he had four more fingers and a whole palm to jam in there. Not to mention another hand and a couple of feet.

I gripped the exam table harder and braced for the worst.

But all I got was a reassuring tap on the shoulder.

Was it ... was it ... ?

"All righty."

That couldn't have been it, my mind yelled at me. Was he seriously just casually chatting away as though he wasn't about to go groping around my large intestine like a bear scooping out paw-fuls of grubs from an old log? Stand-up comedians and sit-coms have told me my entire life that this will be a singularly upsetting and traumatizing experience. THEY WOULDN'T LIE TO ME! WOULD THEY?! WOULD THEY!?

"You can get dressed and come on back to my office when you're ready."

And he was gone.






Huh.





Sooo ...






Huh.





But the thing was ... I didn't actually remember it happening.





I guess maybe it does work better if you back up into it.





Till next we meet ...

Balloon Boy? Is That You?

It really is a tricky being me sometimes.

Not "hard" per se ... just tricky.

I'm not sure if your brain works like this, but there are times when mine seems to be powered almost entirely by a cartoon hamster riding a merry-go-round that honks and squeaks calliope music as it spins.

This morning, for instance, I noticed this fellow on the train platform.

Just a guy doing his job. Just a guy making a living. Just a guy keeping his fellow crew members safe.

Sure.

Nothing weird about that at all.

No sir.

But it didn't matter how many times I looked directly at him ... (heck, we even made eye contact and exchanged polite nods at one point) ...

It didn't matter how much empirical, logical, unambiguous, verifiable, scientific proof that this was, in fact, a grown man holding a sign ...

It just didn't matter ...

Because every single time I looked away and caught him out of the corner of my eye ... my brain kept insisting that I was seeing this:

EVERY.

SINGLE.

TIME.

I would look down at my phone for a fraction of a second, catch just a fleeting glimpse of red ... and my mind would immediately shout: "CHILD WITH BALLOON! THREE O'CLOCK!!"

And then I'd look up and notice: "No, it's just a guy with a sign."

Then I'd glance back at my phone before catching another glimpse. Whereupon my brain would immediately shout: "CHILD WITH BALLOON!! THREE O'CLOCK!!"

And I'd look up again and realize that, no, still just a guy with a sign.

So I'd go back to my phone and the whole ridiculous pageant would play itself out again and again. Probably six or seven times in the course of just a couple of minutes.

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"No."

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"It isn't."

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"Come on now."

"CHILD WITH BALLOON!!"

"Please stop."

There are two particularly puzzling and/or troubling aspects to this incident. First is the question of why the hell was my brain so reflexively insistent on papering over that poor guy with the cartoon shorthand image of a kid with a balloon?

It's certainly not wishful thinking. I'm not overly fond of kids ... they're fine, I guess. The people who make them seem to like them well enough. But they're not really for me. And, while I do on occasion enjoy balloons (I mean, who doesn't? They're balloons!), it's not like I spend every waking minute pining for there to be more balloons in the world.

And it's also not like my brain is substituting a familiar thing for an unfamiliar one. Since I am neither employed by, nor do I regularly attend the circus, I don't encounter a lot of kids with balloons in my daily life. In fact, as a regular commuter for the better part of the last fifteen years, I'm far more likely to see a railway worker with a sign than a kid with a balloon.

It's a head-scratcher, no doubt.

The second aspect that troubles/puzzles (truzzles?) me is, of course, the fact that my short-term memory and cognition skills have apparently eroded away to nothing.

"OH LOOK! A CASTLE!"

(sigh)

Like I said ... it's not "hard" being me exactly. Just a smidge tricky.






I just hope that when that guy finished his shift, he got to keep that balloon.




Till next we meet ...

Eat Me!

It's that time again, everybody. It's time to call bullshit!

And who or what has drawn my ire today? On whom shall said bullshit be called?

Why, food marketing, of course!

Specifically, I call bullshit on the convention of creating sentient, talking mascots THAT ARE MADE OF THE VERY SAME FOOD YOU'RE TRYING TO GET PEOPLE TO EAT.

Because eww.

"We were going to get married and start a family. But nevermind. You're snacky."

Don't get me wrong. I totally understand why this seems like a no-brainer. "Hey, we sell chicken, let's make our mascot a cartoon chicken!" Boom. Done.

At first blush, it makes perfect sense. You want your customers to associate your brand with a particular item ... so you make your mascot a cartoon version of that item. Sure! Everybody does it. Hey, if it works for the Michelin Man, why not us? Easy-peasy!

But it just gets weird when it's food.

Because it's way creepy to have a character effusively encouraging you to devour him and others of his kind.

"Oh yeah! Guzzle my lifeblood after soccer practice!"

The list of these masochistic quisling pitch-men is long. Here are just a few from the top of my head ... Twinkie the Kid, the M&M guys, the Pillsbury Dough Boy, Mayor McCheese, Mister Peanut, the Taco Bell Chihuahua ... and on and on and on ...

(Yes, I know technically Taco Bell is made from blanched wood pulp and ground horse faces, but that's close enough to dog meat for my purposes.)

The point is, this creepy convention is pervasive in the food industry and it's been around for years and years.

At least this guy has it figured out. "Sulf-prezurvashun, bichezz."

There are, of course, companies that neatly sidestep the moral quagmire. The Quaker Oats guy, Tony the Tiger, Burger King, Chester Cheetah, Colonel Sanders, Toucan Sam, Ronald McDonald ... none of these characters are pedaling products rendered from their own flesh.

(I have a theory McDonald's cheeseburgers are at least 30% elderly clown meat, but I can't prove it.)

That said, there are other companies who dive face-first into that quagmire and splash about with gleeful abandon.

Don't even get me started on these cannibalistic sociopaths.

But if you like your psychological fucked-up-edness served with a heaping side of crippling emotional trauma then the guy you want to talk to is one Charles T. "Charlie" Tuna.

With Charlie, Starkist really amps up the creepy by giving him a very strong point of view on the subject.

Is he horrified at the prospect of being killed? Guilt-ridden that he is leading his brethren to the slaughter? Nervous? Scared? Skittish in the least?

Nope.

Charlie is eager ... no enthusiastic ... no ... flat-out desperate to be hooked, gutted, steamed, flaked, canned and eventually chewed to a fine paste by humans.

"Pleeease! Murder me with your teeth! Even though I talk! Have deep-seated feelings of inadequacy! Shop for personalized embroidered hats! And apparently go to an ophthalmologist!"

In fact, his life's dream -- his entire sense of self worth -- hinges upon whether he is good enough to die by the fork and teeth of humanity. Anything less is crushing failure.

For Charlie, there is no higher calling than being sluiced through the human alimentary canal. (Such madness, presumably, mercury-induced.)

Just Google some old Starkist commercials and you'll see. For over fifty years, despite all his yearning and all his wishing ... at every turn he is rebuffed and rejected. Every day fills him with new hope and every day the hook descends from the heavens with his answer ... "Sorry Charlie."

Every.

Day.

His wheel of pain keeps coming round and round to crush his soul afresh. He yearns, but he will never be good enough. He is Prometheus, forever chained to his rock, reliving his torment every day for eternity. And every day the eagles come. And every day they decide his liver isn't good enough to peck out. So they just hit the drive-thru and make him watch.

Charlie's true punishment? That he must go on living.

Samuel Becket would have looked at this ad campaign and said: "Whoa. Guys. Little bleak, isn't it?"

Dude, are there even words for all the shit that's wrong with you?

Now, I really want to believe that Charlie's constant suicidal ideation creeped people out over the years. I want to believe that this produced a feeling of unease in the American eater. I want to believe it hurt sales on some level.

Sure, maybe it's on a level that conventional math has never been able to measure, but I desperately want to believe that with the judicious application of some that Nate-Silver-Super-Math -- that maybe we can find some proof that the idea of stuffing a walking, talking being into your mouth and brutally tooth-murdering him kinda turns people off.

I really do want to believe that.




But I don't.




Because we humans will eat anything. Regardless of any feelings that thing might evoke in us. Guilt, sadness, pity, terror, disgust ...

Doesn't matter. Down it goes.

We'll eat anything.

Any. Goddamn. Thing.

Need proof?

Okay.


We know what lobster tastes like.

Hell, we even have a chain of mid-level family restaurants dedicated specifically to that very activity.

"But lobster is delicious," you say. "How is that proof? People love eating delicious things."

Sure, but at first we didn't know lobster was delicious. But at some point in history, there was that first guy who looked at a lobster and said to his buddy:

"See that giant, terrifying ocean roach with the nightmarish snapping claws?"

"Yeah."

"I'm gonna put that in my mouth."

"Seems reasonable."

"I hope it's delicious."

"Sure."

"But you know what would make it better?"

"If it begged and pleaded to be eaten?"

"Exactly."

"We could pretend it did."

"With cartoons?"

"Of course."

"Done."

"I'll get the butter."

So resigned.
So very resigned.

Till next we meet ...

So Thirsty. So Very Thirsty.

(It has been three straight weeks that the cafeteria at the office building where I work in mid-town Manhattan has been out of Diet Pepsi. As someone who consumes a great deal of this beverage, this condition has rapidly become untenable for me.)

EXPEDITION DIARY

DAY 1: After a thorough accounting of the provisions in our stores, it has come to my attention that the last resupply mission from Base did not seem to include Diet Pepsi. This is extremely vexing.

DAY 2: It has been just 48 hours, but the lack of Diet Pepsi is already having an effect on the crew. The general lack of vim is clear. Even to the untrained eye.

DAY 3: Instructed First Officer Billings to send message to Base via the Marconi. I eagerly await their reply.

DAY 4: Still no reply from Base. The crew's pep has visibly begun to flag.

DAY 5: Instructed Billings to send numerous urgent messages to Base. We receive no answer but static.

DAY 6: Have begun hearing strange sounds in the night. Inhuman sounds. I shall double the watch.

DAY 7: Desperation can do things to a man. Terrible things.

DAY 8: In the quiet moments I find that I cannot quite recall the taste of Diet Pepsi. I must keep this to myself. Mustn't panic the men. Must keep up a brave face.

DAY 9: Morale among the crew is low. Billings tried to fabricate some Diet Pepsi from some carbonated water, caramel color, aspartame, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, caffeine, citric acid and some natural flavorings that he managed to find. It ended in tears, of course. Bitter bitter tears.

DAY 10: Deprivation. Such wanton deprivation.

DAY 11: We are so alone on this remote, deserted island. Cut off from everything and everyone. The rest of the world is but a half remembered dream. So alone. So utterly, utterly alone. The silence, it is deafening.

DAY 12: Someday I can envision a Manhattan where goods can be easily transported over roads and bridges. Where commerce can thrive. This place could be overflowing with invigorating and delicious diet beverages. Someday. Someday.

DAY 13: There is no logic in this place.

DAY 14: Billings has suggested maybe bringing Diet Pepsi from home. "Home." I don't even know what the word means anymore.

DAY 15: All is madness.

We live. Yet surely, without our beverage of choice, this cannot be called "living."

DAY 16: Some of the more desperate men have taken to drinking diet Dr Pepper for succor. I will not bend. I cannot bend. I am not an animal.

DAY 17: The diet Dr Pepper tastes just like regular Dr Pepper, which tastes just like shame. Desperation makes monsters of men.

DAY 18: I don't know how much longer we can endure. I can feel my soul breaking, about to shatter. If this is to be my last entry, please tell my family that my last thoughts were of them. Except that Diet-Coke-swilling reprobate cousin of mine. (He knows who he is.) He is already dead to me.

DAY 19: This must be exactly how Shackelton felt.

DAY 20: Billings suggested we drink the plentiful, plentiful Diet Coke. I will miss him. He was delicious.

DAY 21: The horror. The horror.




Till next we meet ...

Flush Life

Gentlemen:

I can't believe this post has become necessary.

But sadly ... it has.

We need to brush up a little on a few matters of men's room etiquette because ... well, you know how things can get in there.

As you know, or as you should have been taught as a youngster ... there is a time and a place for everything.

One of the items on that "everything" list?

The making of sounds.

The place?

The Men's Room.

The time?

Well, that's what I'd like to talk to you about ...

Now I don't mean the disgusting sounds our bodies naturally make in that room. These sounds, while often regrettable and always revolting, are largely unavoidable. And as such, the Men's Room is really the only socially acceptable place for you to make those sounds in the presence of others.

For instance, it's generally permissible to pass gas at the urinal.

But DON'T stare fixedly into the eyes of the guy next to you and moan with pleasure while you do it.
Trust me on this. Adult teeth do not grow back.

WHEN YOU SHOULD MAKE NOISE

Okay, here are a couple basic rules of thumb ...

Here's the situation: You're in a stall and you hear someone come into the restroom.

Even if this scenario fills you with blind, white-knuckle panic that said person might be your boss, a serial killer, a fire-pissing Hell-Spawn from the Demon Pit or a co-worker who might accidentally open your stall door ... it is your responsibility to make some goddamn noise.

I don't mean you need to make with the plop-plop-wiz-wiz on command. Or that you need to announce yourself like a town crier, hollering the old classic: "Somebody's in here!"

But you really do need to let that person know, in some subtle way, that they should maybe not try to fling open the door to that stall.

Just clear your throat, shuffle your feet, fumble with the toilet paper roll, jingle your belt buckle, or my personal go-to ... give a nice, innocuous courtesy flush.

You can keep it subtle and still get the point across.

But do not ... and I can't stress this enough ... do NOT cower silently, unmoving, unblinking and unbreathing, like you're hiding Anne Frank from the Nazis.

This helps exactly no one.

Seriously. Who do you think is out there?

"Dad?"

Because falling utterly silent is pretty much the creepiest thing you can do.

This tells me you want that person to think there's nobody in that stall.

Which tells me you want them to yank that door open.

Which then tells me you want them to see you sitting there with your tender nethers all splayed akimbo.

Which ultimately tells me you're totally hoping they're into that.

But come on. Even if that's actually is your deal ... your creepy, creepy, probably diagnosable deal ... the odds of it being former Senator Larry Craig or 80s pop icon George Michael on the other side of the door are fairly slim.

"Wake me up before you ... you know ... "go-go" ..."

And don't overdo it. Just be subtle. Don't make it weird. Don't whistle a tune, do a little tap dance number, or -- (and this is a 100% real example that I have personally encountered) -- sing opera.

(Seriously, man. If you find yourself itching to perform an aria while a rope of effluent snakes its way out of your underself ... I'm not even sure Science has a word for what's wrong with you. Just knock it off.)

WHEN YOU SHOULD NOT MAKE NOISE

Don't talk to me.

It's not that I'm surly and unfriendly. (I mean, I often am, but that's not the point.) If I'm at a urinal, I'm not there to chat. About work, about the game, about the family ... about anything.

I have filthy business to conduct and I don't care to be distracted.

This is the chief reason that talk shows have couches instead of a bank of urinals. True story.

Rule of thumb: If my genitals are in my hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

If your genitals are in your hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

Basically, if anybody's genitals are in anybody's hands, it's not appropriate to speak to me.

Even if you desperately want to compliment me on my genitals or my hands.
Don't. Just don't.

And if I'm in a stall, it's super not appropriate to speak to me. Once that door closes, it is a sacred space. Inviolable. Where solemn, private business is conducted between a man and his shameful voidings.

Respect that.

Now, if we're at the sink ... that's a different story. It is perfectly permissible to hold a short conversation whilst washing up.

But keep it brief. This isn't the proper venue for a staff meeting.

I mean, Jesus ... people shit in this room.



Till next we meet ...



(Note: The preceding applies only to Men's Rooms. I cannot speak to the vagaries of decorum as they pertain to Ladies' Rooms. These are mystical and unknowable places.)

(Once you add couches and conversation areas to the pooping room, well, all rules of human interaction go right out the window.)