Stick to the rules at urinals |

Stick to the rules at urinals

by Jarid Shipley

Just when I think that the general population can’t put forth any more weird ways to make me ashamed to be a Homo sapien, somebody steps up to the plate.

In the course of 10 minutes, my hope for humanity got shattered worse than my ego at that bachelor auction.

On Friday night, the girlfriend and I went to see “Greg London’s Icons” at Harrah’s in Reno. After the performance, we hit the bathroom before heading back to Carson city and in the process, my hope for humanity was stained worse than rent-by-the-hour motel room bedspread.

I should preface this by stating for anyone who hasn’t been in a men’s bathroom, there are unspoken rules that should be obeyed.

The major rules are simple: Don’t make eye contact, don’t choose a urinal next to an occupied one unless you are forced to, eyes remain at shoulder level at all times and most importantly, DON’T TALK WHILE AT THE URINAL.

I don’t care if Michael Jordan is next to you, if you say anything you deserve to be beaten with a bag of ceramic figurines.

The only exception is if eye-contact is accidentally made, you are permitted to do the half-head nod, which says, “What’s up, I’m not being rude by completely ignoring you but don’t want to engage in conversation.”

So I sauntered up to the only urinal available and began to take care of business. Out of the corner of my eye I caught some movement. Not wanting to break a rule, I didn’t look over but continued to use my peripheral vision to discern what was happening.

Next to me stood a 60-plus-year-old man staring straight down, occasionally performing a move that can only be described as a jump-hop.

To make it worse, he is talking to, well, himself, coaxing and cajoling his plumbing to work.

“Come on, come on baby. Come on. . .” (jump-hop)

OK, so now what the hell do I do about the guy talking to his manhood so close to me. I can’t stop mid-stream because that could cause damage. Why does he keep saying baby, that’s just unnecessary.

“OK, it’s OK, come on. It’s OK . . .” (jump-hop)

I swear if he uses the word daddy in the next five seconds, I’m out, damage or no damage. Seriously man, drink some cranberry juice or do like the rest of us and imagine a waterfall. No pep talks, and why is he still looking down like there’s a book down there that he’s reading. That’s not right.

Then, as if it wasn’t awkward enough, I hear, “OH, that’s it.”

I was so shocked by this development that without even thinking, I looked over.

The guy was staring at me, shrugs his shoulders and gives me the half-head nod with this perverted smile on his face.

Oh my god, I think he’s hitting on me. Blast my rugged good looks and godlike hair, I just can’t turn it off. Must get away from creepy old urinal talker.

I haven’t exited a bathroom that fast since the time at the German restaurant where I thought “Damen” was the men’s room. It seemed logical, it’s for DA MEN.


I was so shaken by my creepy urinal talker that I couldn’t even tell the girlfriend what had happened. I think I suffered permanent damage.

I wonder if there’s a support group for that?

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• Jarid Shipley is a reporter for the Nevada Appeal. Contact him a or 881-1217.