My job description here is pretty simple: Find the quickest, most efficient way to make people feel good about feeling bad when they read my writing. That means I have to take your hand in mine (which I assure you could use a squirt of hand sanitizer), and lead you on a journey to places you think you don't want to go. Places where you do embarrassing, terrible, uncouth things. Come, take my hand. Take my hand and go to the bathroom with me, so I can assure you that it's not just you who does ...
Let's say you took a shower yesterday morning. You ate some Frosted Flakes, you went to work, you cried on your break period, you stole a ton of office supplies, you came home, you drank until you passed out, and then BANG, new day. To make up for yesterday's shame, you do some working out in the morning and get as sweaty as an OCD orgy. It's time to shower again. Sounds normal, right?
You disrobe, slide out of your vinyl workout onesie, and grab the safety bar to help you step over the dangerous edge of the tub and into the shower. And then, at that perfect moment, when your leg is ever so slightly aloft and a faint, hushed breeze of cool air from the vent is just kissing at your swampy taint, you reach down. You reach down and you swipe a digit through the stodgy morass you've cultivated in your shame crevasse, and then you take a quick snoot pull of that wicked bouquet.
I can see you now, reeling in disgust at the very idea of smelling your own dank nether-slurry, but deep down, we both know you've done it. Everyone has done it. Everyone has taken a swab in their own personal Mines of Moria, and everyone has come out a changed person. Not better. Not worse. Just changed.
Ladies, I'm 95 percent sure you can sit this one out and only read on for educational purposes. That 5 percent is tacked on because I can't claim to have much expertise in how your plumbing works. I took a health class in high school and, you know, I've seen some graphic videos, but I'm hardly a whizgineer. And with that in mind, let me tell you about pissing in the sink.
I'm not proud of this, and I don't do it all the time or anything, but the fact remains there have been a few dire moments in my life when I had more immediate access to a sink than I did a toilet and, figuring that all drains lead to rivers and all rivers lead to the ocean, I hosed down the sink. And if I'm being super honest, you can remove that "dire moments" bit from my explanation and just safely assume I was too lazy to go upstairs. In fact, my best friend in high school probably had more people pissing in his laundry room sink than in his bathroom, because you had to go up like 12 steps and then cross the kitchen to get to the toilet, but the sink was right next to the room we used to hang out in. When you're a teenager who hates moving, there is no distance between 12 steps and a thousand steps. They are one and the same.
Naturally, if a girl was present, no one ever pissed in the sink, and if there's any chance his mom reads my articles, she probably just learned of this at the same time the rest of you did. But trust me when I tell you that this wasn't our own isolated phenomenon. Sink-pissing is real. It's happening. Right now. Did your friend just leave the room to "go to the bathroom"? Just listen. Be quiet and listen. Does the stream sound "bathroom close," or does it sound "sink close"? That said, I'm sorry for ruining all of your lives.
Few things are so vaunted in our society as a boob. They hold sway and do sway, on occasion. They're utilitarian to some, sexual to others, and a nuisance to those who own them at least 25 percent of the time, if my research is even bordering on correct. And while to the male gaze they seem like all fun and frolic, there's more work behind the scenes than most of us will ever realize.
It turns out -- and ladies, you go ahead and set me straight on Twitter if I'm way off base about this -- that when it comes to loading the cannons, there's a procedural issue that you generally don't show off in mixed company. From time to time, as I understand it, when one is trying to situate the twins in the appropriate support garment, one must mathematically align them in a forward-facing level position, lest one or even both end up looking like cockeyed drunks trying to watch a Tilt-a-Whirl.
Lacking the appropriate biology, I had no idea this was even an issue, but apparently nipples are like a basket of puppies you set down on the floor. The moment you turn your back, they're going off in every direction. For proper care and placement, you need to make sure when you're holstering them so that they're set due north. Otherwise a cold breeze could have you pointing off all helter skelter in an embarrassing display of misalignment.
Back to an issue closer to my own heart -- and by closer, I mean hovering around sack level. Improper sack care is a terrible mistake which I'm willing to bet far too many men have made in their lives. Now sure, if you ever have jiggly-time fun with a friend, then they will likely become aware of whether you're the sort of fellow who does what the young people call "manscaping." And, if I may so impose, you should definitely do that if you don't already. I used to go to the Y, and there were old dudes in the shower there with such pube thickets that it looked like they'd tried to fuck the machine that makes steel wool and never found out how to properly escape its clutches. Don't be like that. But I digress. The point is, yes, people will know you do this. But your secret, embarrassing shame is no doubt the same as mine: You've fucked it up once. You've fucked it up bad.
Every man has a moment when they want to feel their best. When they're pretty sure they're going to charm the literal pants off of someone, and in doing so, they will remove their own and show off the golden goods proudly. You need your gear to look and smell as good as it can, so maybe after making your nuts as smooth as 2017 Bruce Willis' head, you think "Little splash of the good stuff can't hurt?" The fuck it can't. The fuck it cannot.
Aftershave on a recently shaved ball bag is a lot like sriracha on a recently shaved ball bag. Or hot knives in the eyeball, if your eyeballs are in your ball bag. The sting is unlike any other sensation you'll ever experience. You can literally feel it seep into your flesh and spread like a dude sitting on a subway seat. And as it plateaus, it changes from a sharp sting to a low-grade burn, like you just teabagged a waffle iron and didn't have the wherewithal to stop squatting there. You feel waffle iron dumb. There's nothing like it.
I'm only mildly ashamed by how fascinating I find the daily rituals of women. To women, they are mundane and forgettable. To me, they are like opening a wardrobe and seeing Mr. Tumnus frolicking through Narnia. For instance, if you're a woman, the trials and tribulations of tampon use probably mean very little to you. But since I'm in no position to ever understand anyone's menstrual health and well-being beyond what Wikipedia tells me, I look at them like I'm Richard Dreyfuss at the end of Close Encounters Of The Third Kind.
The menfolk probably have some understanding of the concept of tampons and how they work, so maybe you'll be as perplexed as I was when I toss up this question: What happens when you poop? If you're bearing down (because let's face it, not everything slides out like a buttered seal on a water slide) and your muscles are contracting, how the hell does that little fella stay in there? One option is to just take it out, but that means you have to replace it with a new one. But what if you're out and forgot one? Thus begins a harrowing tale of things no one ever wanted me to know about. Because if it can't come out but it doesn't want to stay in, there is but one option: the use of force. You have to make it stay.
My research pool for this is small, so don't go printing this in academic journals just yet, but from what I have heard, you have to just hold it there. Like a tall person holding back a shorty during a comedy fight, one hand resting on their sad little head as they swing and hit nothing in a vain quest for victory, the tampon gets a finger pushed against it so it can be braced and forced to stay put. It may not be ideal, but it may also be the only option you have. And I could read a whole book about it.
I like to think you can explain this away as a heroic act, a well-plotted sacrifice for the good of the entire world which you make because you are a decent, caring human being. You are so good and loving that you will stand tall after dropping a deuce and not wipe your ass. You will not wipe your ass because you're going to take a shower in a minute anyway.
I've discussed this at length with others, and it's a hotly debated issue. As hot as that mucilaginous paste fudging up your back porch which you chose to leave in place in order to save a half dozen squares of gossamer paper. Some people are staunchly against this, at least when questioned, but others are willing to admit that it's an OK sacrifice to make if you're about to hop under the shower head anyway. After all, it's not like you can technically be too dirty to take a shower, can you? If anything, you're kind of foolish for wiping your ass with a dry bit of paper when you have a perfectly serviceable spray of pressurized water and soap handy only a few feet away.
Or can you be too dirty to take a shower? What if you get in the shower, start washing your ass and feel it? Sure, you're in a shower. You'll get clean eventually. But you always know. You always remember. You'll always wake up and wonder if you should've used toilet paper. And when your loved one asks you what's wrong, you'll always react with the same scream.
Don't be embarrassed to read Ian's Twitter the next time you're on the toilet.
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