Mens Rooms Are Glorified Stadium Troughs

By Roode

Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a sexist. If insisting that my wife stay chained to the stove in the kitchen while barefoot makes me one; how dare you judge me! At any rate, I'm glad that, for the most part, men and women have an equal share in life. Both can be captains of industry. Both can be professional wrestlers. Both can be corrupt pieces of shit.

Both Rod Blagojevich and Nancy Pelosi prove this all too well.

But, there is one place where we are very separate, but not so equal. One place where the genders are not the same. One hideous place where horror awaits for one and delight hangs around in pink slippers and a fluffy bathrobe for the other. Where? Prison camps? The DMV? State run universities? No, but good guesses, all. My friends, inequality and injustice are in the smelly, dank shit hole called the office men's room.

Abandon hope all ye who enter here! Wow, that was classy, wasn't it? Your typical men's room at any place of business is basically a glorified trough with running water (if you're lucky enough to have running water). No real thought goes into this hole in the wall shit stained encrusted tomb. No actual construction worker or office facilities manger gives two shits about how it's built or maintained. It's a men's room. It's perfectly alright for it to look like it belongs in a Greyhound bus station. No. , a bus station bathroom would actually be an improvement for most of us. An abandoned gas station at a rest stop in Beirut is more accurate.

If i could find a way to convey the smell of stale urine and festering feces, you would be in trouble right about now.

This washroom of the damned was abandoned by society a long time ago. The cleaning crew doesn't even bother going in there any more. They just chuck soap cakes towards the urinals then run away like their hair was on fire.

Most office men's rooms are now synonymous with the Hovito temple in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Water drips from every surface, the patrons completely disregard the need for paper towels. The towel dispenser, itself, has been converted to some sort of makeshift curio for used tissues and what suspiciously looks like moldy, half eaten baloney sandwiches. The urinal cakes, long since giving up all hope of bringing freshness to such a dismal place, are now gray and fuzzy with despair. If you listen closely, you can hear them wail their song of sorrow.

So very sad.

If there is toilet paper, it's banned by the Geneva Convention. No rosy cheeked baby on these packages. They come in plain brown wrapping, not unlike porno magazines of old. At least the porn was a joyous occasion to lower your pants. This Mengele style torture experiment is designed, not only to grab onto every ass hair possible, but to have the consistency of high grit sandpaper dipped in glass then set on fire.

Have fun sanding your sphincter with this fucker.

The women's room, by comparison, is a fucking Garden of Eden. Seriously, what the fuck? Who the hell in their right mind would design two rooms, basically used for the same purpose, so motherfucking vastly different? Somewhere, if we trace back the evolution of the modern restroom, a beastly man hater used the clashing designs to punish everyone with a penis. That has to be it. What else could it be? Maybe, some bizarre sociological mind fuck experiment? Aliens? Shit, maybe this is why there isn't one sign of a public restroom on the USS Enterprise in the 24th century. Man finally realized that this whole set up was bullshit.

Fuck it. Everyone gets their own bathroom. It's the only way to preserve the galactic peace.

"But, Roode. How would you know what the women's room looks like? Are you some sort of pervert?" Those are two different questions, fucktard. Yeah, I went into the women's room. What of it? I had to find out what all the hub bub was about. Every male employee walks out of the bathroom like he just escaped from an anal gang rape by a group of porcupines. But, the women.... they come out refreshed, happy, and with goddamn smiles on their faces. Even the smell is different. When the men's room door flaps open, in that brief second, you can smell despair, fermenting waste, and the pungent odor of urine soaked mold. But, when the women's room door opens, the scents of lavender and friggin bakery fresh chocolate chip cookies wafts out. I had to see it. I NEEDED to see how the other half lives. So, after hours, I went in. What? If this chick can piss in a urinal in a men's room, I sure as balls could take a brief look-see.

Sure, it's fine when a girl does this. But, if I were to go in the women's room to take a dump it would be an "issue."

What I saw was disturbing and enraging. It looked nothing like what my gender gets shafted with. There was..... air freshener. Vases of flowers dotted the counter. Every stall door was on its hinges and the dispenser overflowith with paper towels. I was flabbergasted. One, two, three..... HOLY SHIT! There are three times the toilet stalls here. Three showers? Decorative hand soaps? Is that....motherfucker.. it is.. It's a basket of potpourri and a plate of cookies. Classical music was being piped in through a stereo speaker with a delightful floral pattern. I guess science has proven that Bach makes the shitting process easier and more enjoyable.

Colon friendly music.

I opened a stall, which still had its handle (we jury rigged our handicapped stall door with a screwdriver). I had to know. I had to experience one of the toilet stalls of the divine. It was so roomy and luxurious. It was like shitting in the sky box at Wrigley Field. I slowly reached for the toilet paper. What I felt was no Nazi designed torture devise. It was.... what's the word.... soft. This was toilet paper made by angels from unicorns. I could wrap myself in a roll of this stuff and slowly drift off to sleep. It was like wiping your ass with velvet. Fucking velvet!

Just like a velvet bed set. But, for your ASS!

Perhaps, the most heinous (rhythms with anus) outrage was the leather couch. A LEATHER COUCH!! Who the fuck needs a leather couch in the shitter? How is this right? How is this not a crime? The men's room doesn't get so much as a lawn chair and a milk crate. Did they think they could keep their secret forever? Did they not realize that, one day, we would discover their treachery? The men's room is one step below pissing in a rusty coffee can. The women's room? Well, it's a suite at the Hilton with a tampon machine.

Where the fuck is OUR tampon machine?

The next day, I went to our human resources department to lodge a complaint. I stormed into the director's office, kicking over a chair for dramatic effect. "I'm on to you!" I shouted as I shook my fist and grimaced. "I'm onto all you fuckers!"

Feigning ignorance, she just looked at me and sighed. "What is it now, Roode? Candy machine broken again?"

I laughed. I've long since figured out how to jimmy the lock on the candy machine and get all the Zagnut bars I wanted. "It's an injustice. An outrage! The men in this office, my brothers in arms, are subjected to deplorable bathroom conditions while the women move their bowels in luxury!"

Not our HR director, but I really REALLY want it to be.

Again, a look of annoyance and semi wonder; as if she was asking herself why she didn't take a sick day. "Roode, remember when we had that discussion about drinking in the office?"

"I'm not drunk yet! I'm sober, baby. My eyes are wide open! I've seen the women's bathroom. It's a fucking luxury box at Wrigley! Potpourri! Velvety soft toilet paper! A fucking leather couch! Explain yourself! Explain to me why such obvious favoritism and sexism reigns supreme in this building! Why are those of us that sport penises herded into that concentration camp of a restroom while your gender gets a dozen stalls and a tampon machine! And cookies?! I found a Junior Mint on the floor in the men's room a year ago. It tasted terrible!"

The one I found was just like these, but with more hair and dust.

She reached over to her filing cabinet and pulled out several manila folders; all marked in bold block letters "ROODE." "So, Roode, how many times have you been in the ladies room?"

Shit! There was a flaw in my plan. I tried to back peddle. Um, I saw pictures of it on the internet? That just made things worse. Then I tried to tell her that I heard about it from a guy that knows a guy that has been there. But, she saw some of the potpourri I stole from the basket jammed into my front pocket. I guess the fact that I was still eating one of the toilet cookies didn't help.

Why the fuck did I take the whole plate with me then carry it into the HR's director's office?

Looking on the bright side of things, I got vacation out of it. And by vacation, I mean a mandatory three day leave of absence without pay. But, still, the image of that Valhalla of a women's room will haunt me for the rest of my days. A FUCKING LEATHER COUCH!

Sincerely,
Roode