New Guest Blogger – HANK

Please welcome out new guest blogger, Hank. Yes, he’s the very same Hank that is used in our rating system (as a reminder, the system is 0-10 Hanks with 0 being the best because the less Hanks the better). Let’s all give a big WTFIH welcome to Hank for his first in a series of urinal commentaries.

Joie de Pee by Hank

For the last few weeks, Howard has been pestering me to write a guest blog entry on whatthefuckishappening.blogspot.com. I said “no way Jose” (I didn’t really say that – I’m no racist!). I knew that this blog would quickly run out of fuel. Remember – most blogs launched into the blogosphere survive less than a month, and then  they become dangerous space debris.

Since Howard was spending $$ like a diva on fancy clothes and various bling accessories, everyone knew he would soon run out of $$ and be unable to afford the very food he blogged about. Hence, no blog-fodder, no blog. You know what kind of food I’m talking about, too. “Snark food”, the food that snarks like Howard eat to keep their snarky bones strong and their snarky teeth sharp. But in the midst of his epic spending binge, Howard found the time to attract several other guest bloggers to write for him (much like feces attract flies). Needless to say, these new bloggers were blowing Howard out of the water. It was fun to see the guest bloggers’ epic and eloquent film reviews tower over Howard’s pedestrian rants about stomach aches and fashion trends. So I decided to ante up, join the fight, enter the dragon, and travel between a rock and a hard place in order to knock Howard out of the blog history books. That’s what prompted me to create this blog-worthy mini-series. After these words are uploaded into the blogosphere, all five of you reading will know that whatthefuckishappening.blogspot.com has been changed forever. One day, who knows when, this blog will stop being updated and start racing directionless through the blogosphere. It will eventually bore a hole through some unsuspecting starship, or crash down on an igloo. The Inuit couple will move their noses away from each other, breaking their lover’s embrace, and inspect the rubble. They will then read the very words you are reading now. But when that happens at least I can say it wasn’t me who let the blog fail. I will be able to say I was there at its peak. I was its peak. Once this limited run mini-series of blog entries is over with, it won’t matter what follows, because it already happened.

It is entitled “Joie de Pee”, and it is about important urinals from throughout my life.

EXPLANTION

Urinals can have a significant impact on our lives, though most people do not realize it (especially woman*). The act of using the urinal is intertwined with one of man’s most ancient behaviors – urinating. In the time before urinals (BU) man relieved himself in nature. He would pause during, say, a hunting expedition to let loose in the wilderness, wind at his back, a dirt turning to mud at his feet. Have you ever felt that chill go up your spine whilst standing over a urinal? That is a genetic memory – a thrill from a bygone age – resurfacing in a wholly modern environment. It is the level of that thrill, as well as atmosphere and anecdotes, that I will rate several urinals I have experienced over the years.

*Save for those few woman who have utilized this bad mutha.

JOIE DE PEE
PART I: HUGHES MIDDLE SCHOOL, MEN’S LOCKER ROOM

Built in the 60’s, the restroom had real tiles (no linoleum here) and the walls were covered in the 18th coat of beige led-based paint. Wind would waft through the window, mixing the two predominate odors in the room – bleach and feces – into a cocktail that smelled like a gay pornstar’s b-hole (Mom? Dad? Future employers? You reading this?). The urinals ran in a straight line against the back wall with no dividers to protect users from either splashing or gayzing, and were completely visible to outside passerby when the door was open. At this point in my life, I always chose to use a stall, so my rating is partly based on others’ use of the urinals. I wasn’t particularly ashamed of my body at the time, but the lackluster floor plan did not allow for the privacy required by intelligent and self-conscious young men in order to use these particular urinals.

I remember one day walking into this restroom and finding a fellow student misusing the urinal. He was in gym clothes just like me, only his blue shorts were around his ankles. Misusing, I say, because his trajectory was 180º off-course. His stream splashed against the floor tiles far from the American Standard porcelain urinal. I remember the boy looking me dead in the eye and ejaculating, “I’m pissin’ on the ground!” I didn’t recognize him from the Special Education clique, nor from my magnet classes, so I gathered that he was simply an underachiever who for first time in his life actually accomplished something he set out to do – piss on the ground. Maybe he was a pleasure-seeker more in tune with his genetic memory than I. Whatever his reasons were for pissing on the ground, his golden arch created a barrier between me and the stall. I was unwilling to limbo past him, so left I left him to celebrate alone and searched for another restroom.

I’d tell you about the other restroom’s urinal, but this is a review of the first restroom’s urinal. Let me just say that finding another one took a little too long, and I was late to gym class roll-call. Mr. Mowe (no relation to famed exotic dancer Ken Mowe, more closely related to R. Lee Ermey) called me out and threatened OCS – On-Campus Suspension, or the Cooler. I told him that I had an excuse for being late but needed to tell him the details in private. After he sent everyone to play hand-ball or some stupid whatever game, I explained my previous predicament, and that all was fine now as far as my bladder was concerned. But things were not fine with Mr. Mowe – he ran a tight ship and never left a man behind, so having me come late because of some joker was pissing me out of a restroom was not OK. There was simply nothing I could say to keep Mr. Mowe from unscrewing this poor fool’s head and shitting down his neck.

Mr. Mowe asked me who the boy was. I said I’d never seen him before, but that he was in another PE class, and he was a medium-height light-skinned African American. 10 minutes later I stood before a line-up of a half-dozen light-skinned African Americans in PE uniforms. Mr. Mowe asked me which one did it, and I pointed him out. “O-C-S you idiot” Mr. Mowe screamed at the boy, and then let the rest of them go. He then let me go.

That urinal taught me an important life lesson. It taught me not to be like this “idiot”. It also taught me that you get in trouble when you don’t use urinals. Even though it didn’t smell the best, it didn’t bring forth images of the Killing Fields like the restrooms at Long Beach Polytechnic High School (to be reviewed later). So, while at the time neither I nor the perpetrator seemed interested in using it, I’ll give it the benefit of the doubt and judge it kindly.

Seven Howards out of ten.

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~ by hmsla on November 26, 2009.

8 Responses to “New Guest Blogger – HANK”

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  8. Wow, so glad I’m a girl and never had this Hughes Middle School urinal experience.

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