Bar Pooper: The most pitiful man in all the land

I am currently playing the surprisingly popular form of Russian Roulette commonly referred to as eating a hot-pocket. (Philly Cheesesteak style). There is nothing more thrilling than choking down a nutritionless salt-bomb with a dry flaky crust made out of tractor-trailer brake dust and old chinese newspapers (they’re full of essential inks), especially one whose internal contents come in only two temperatures; i.e. frozen solid, and surface-of-the-sun hot. Let me tell you, a bloody anus caused by explosive diarrhea really lets a man know he is alive.

Sure, I may be stuck in my bathroom for the next 6-12 hours, choking on the abombinable aethers of my sphincterious maximus, or wishing for a swift death as my gastrointenstinal tract dissolves, but it will all be worth it because 1: Hot Pockets are kind of almost tasty, and they take 1 minute to prepare, and 2: I still won’t be the most pitiful form of man.

That distinction my dears, goes to the bar pooper.

I suppose it would be harder to recognize in a female rest room, since I assume they all pretty much have stalls, and some might even have what for men are the almost unheard of luxury of stall doors. So maybe a young woman eats a little too much spicy indian food before going out for martinis with the girls, and she has to deposit a lumberous sacrifice at the altar of the porcelain god. No big deal. She gathers up twenty-six of her friends from the dance floor,waits an hour in line, and like a 5 star general invades the ladies room and deploys them in a strategic protective screen throughout the undoubtably sparkling interior, with it’s expansive foyer full of comfortable couches and rhinestone encrusted tampon dispensers, it’s easy listening smooth jazz, and its psychiatrist picked calming color scheme, giving her the freedom and privacy in her luxurious stall de toilette to make poop-poop, all while doing her nails, fixing her make-up, and updating her twitter feed (#DWEET@cindiOMG,IMHOGr8PoopFTW!X0X0!)

It’s a little different for men. First off, there are rarely lines. This is mostly because there are rarely toilets to wait in line for. The bathroom is usually simply a utility closet with an industrial drain, or a dank cave of natural origins that just happened to exist under the foundation when the building was created, and whoever owns the establishment, in their infinite generosity, has supplied a hollowed out log, or metal pig trough full of ice, or similar communal bucket based object to urinate in, but usually once you’re in there anything with a drain or a convenient spot to aim at becomes fair game. Unless they are governed by some sort of handicapped access building codes, there is very rarely a stall, and if by some miracle there is a stall, ten times out of ten, it won’t have a door.

So there you are, ready to burst and definitely regretting stopping at hometown buffet before the club, and it’s already too late to go somewhere else to find a more private/less incredibly disgusting environment, because miracle of miracles a “hot” girl was actually dancing with you for once, and you just know that if you leave she’ll be making out with your roomate in an instant, and so you’ve hung around too long, and you have but one horrible, poorly lit, never-been-cleaned, crowded, stinky, puke, piss, and herpes encrusted non-flushing option.

It’s scary, but you have to go alone, because no man in their right mind would ever ask a friend to accompany him to the rest room, and if he did, those friends would simply say no, because after all, they want him to leave, so they can start making out with that “hot” girl he had just been dancing with. And so you go, you drop your drawers, you squish down onto the rum and vomit soaked seat, and you do your business, all the while knowing that every other guy in that bathroom is judging you, and wondering what horrible plague you’re dying from that you would be so desperate as to dump in a bar bathroom. You, bar pooper, truly are the most pitiful man in all the land. Oh, and BTW, there’s never any toilet paper.

About Max T Kramer

Max has been better than you at writing since the third grade. He currently lives in Connecticut, but will someday return to the desert.
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