Photo by Emmanuel RosarioThere’s not much in life that provides the same satisfaction and empowerment as pissing in the bush. It’s a hard feeling to put into words. The ability to just sling our junk out and empty the tank in the middle of a forest is a moment of pure manly existentialism, a twinkling of freedom that lets us be truly at one with nature and our manhood.
You could call it the greatest achievement in male evolution. Let’s be honest, we haven’t really got a lot else to brag about other than taking the whole bipedal hominid thing a step further. Pissing and standing? We’ve got that shit DOWN. What’s the point in having an opposable thumb if you’re squatting in a puddle of your own piss all the time?
But somewhere along the evolutionary journey, we lost sight of what was important. We shackled ourselves within walls of stainless steel and porcelain. Handtowels and blowdriers took the place of leaves and pure naked sunlight. Bathrooms became an accepted part of our existence, and we forgot our true selves.
The worst part is that half of us don’t even know what we’ve lost. Like a tiger that’s never tasted meat or a kid that’s been home-schooled, we’ve got no idea what we’re missing out on. Hand on hose, I swear on behalf of those who can’t. I pledge to remember my roots and boycot those horrible minefields of olfactory abuse and awkward social interaction; those disease-filled alleys of cruelty that take years to master and still leave men feeling dirty and useless. Where technique is everything and the moment is lost in a flurry of concentration and hand-eye coordination.
Public toilets are an evil that needs to be stamped out.
Angle of approach, splash back allowance, dribble control. Stance, feet placement and shake shrapnel – all thought-consuming calculations that remove any enjoyment from the process. Add in the wildly vague and varying social factors and it’s a complete nightmare for any toilet-trained, willy-owning male.
Harken back to your youth, when a tree, rock or plant was your bowl. When accuracy was unimportant and the sheer joy of release would take your young mind on intergalactic journeys of light and sound, time was just a four-letter word and you could shake without fear of sharing with your neighbour. My friends, those were our glory days.
Now remember your last foray into a shared bathroom: the uncomfortable shuffling and averted eyes, the raised heart rate. Your prefrontal cortex spinning through social computations based on proximity and the diurnal drinking patterns of the guys at your local pub. Your tired brain attempts complex social algebra while you awkwardly check out the available spaces on the urinal wall.
I’m sure the socially acceptable proximity ratio of urinal users is inversely proportionate to alcohol consumption. But what if I’m wearing jandals? What if it’s a Tuesday and the urinal cakes are blue? All functions of a flawed system. A prison we built around our dicks.
Next time you find yourself in need, do your manhood a favour and find a nice tree.
By Iain Nealie