There are certain things in a society that, no matter in what part of the world you are, will always be considered universal. Certain concepts like courtesy, contempt, class and other words that start with “c” are inherent to every individual; that is why most of us can watch videos on YouTube of crazy Japanese shows without subtitles and get a hearty kick out of them. Some things can just transcend borders with great ease. All of these communal experiences we share as a species are unmistakable, undeniable and, most of the time, irreprehensible. People are expected to act a certain way on certain situations, and that’s that. A rather unorthodox example of this principle, though, is most certainly our behavior concerning rituals in public bathrooms.

Oh yes, taking a leak or dump in a public bathroom is risky business for many folks, much of the time a downright blasphemy to even suggest it. Why, though? What is the difference between defecating on a public toilet bowl than on the one in a friend’s apartment? Why do some people hold it all day to take a crap at home? Why are so many people scared of others smelling one’s shit?

I am a social person that eats out most of the time, so I visit public bathrooms on a regular basis. Also, and don’t mind me saying so, I possess an efficient, clockwork digestive track. It’s as if I have a replica of the Japanese subway system: always packed, trains get to the departure station on time, and they leave on time as well, usually in a great rush. Because there is no room for excess waste in my metabolism, I tend to do to the bathroom to do #2 a great deal, and I’m all for it since there is nothing quite like faxing out “a very important document” by flushing everything out. It’s like when you take the first drink of your favorite beverage. Both you (and the toilet bowl) breathe a satisfying sigh of relief that echoes all over the room. People should, in my opinion, be proud of having ridden themselves of their feces with smiles on their faces (as I do), but it seems to me that many people don’t share the same sentiment.

Case in point: one time I went into a public bathroom at my office building to relieve myself Southside. It is rather small for a public bathroom, with only 2 stalls, so the concentration of shit stink was imminent. Nonetheless, I waltzed into the only available stall to unleash the poppa bear creeping out of its cave.

As I lock the door and unbutton my pants in order to gently set my ass on the cold toilet seat, I heard something that I have never heard before in the situation I was in at the time: a gasp. And it came from the neighboring stall. I never thought I’d hear a gasp of fear as a result of me taking a dump next to someone else, but perhaps my reputation preceded me. Maybe I let out a stench (no pun intended) that alerts other men that the champ is coming, and he’s hitting the throne with blood in his eyes. You see, I like to watch how other people react to certain situations; this is why I’m hooked on reality TV and thought “Borat” and “The Aristocrats” are hilarious. When you gasp at the presence of another warm-body inside a public bathroom and that warm-body is none other than yours truly, you have just exposed your weakness, you dumb motherfucker; I sit down, and just like that… it’s Hammer time.

Releasing pressure from the crap chamber has always been, and will always be, one of my greatest pleasures. It is the equivalent of having an array of trumpets churn a song of victory right before the king’s triumphant entrance. It’s a cause for celebration, and when I get lucky the pressure sounds morph from wind instruments to percussion, drumming away like the sounds of various tommy guns from the 1920’s. Most bathrooms have a horrible echo effect, but in respect to the pomposity of the “Imperial March” coming out of my ass every time I’m about to do #2, it serves a glorious purpose. I laugh, not to ridicule the sense of discomforting awkwardness reeking from the stall beside me, but out of pure joy. Sometimes you see fireworks, and they’re so pretty you can’t help but smile. In that same regard, sometimes I shit so loud I can’t help but laugh. I’m just so happy.

After all pressure from the chamber has been released, prepping the air with a warm, suspicious mist, it’s time to let the dogs out. You know, it’s at this moment, when I’m pushing turds the size of meat balls with the Nancy next door sweating bullets in fear, that I come to the realization that one never really knows how bad their own shit stinks. No one ever thinks about it, but everyone thinks their crap fiestas smell like rosemary and that’s far away from the truth. Of course, the reason why most folks can actually sit on a bowl full of chlorine water plucking down their bodily wastes without passing out due to the foul smell is because a person’s nose gets accustomed to smells after a certain amount of time. I know how my crap smells, so much so that I don’t even smell it anymore. Nancy next door, though? He probably gasped because he sensed a napalm death approaching.

More often than not, I like to go over the top with things. I am, after all, a storyteller: you don’t get chances like these often, when your audience is so close to the experience and your tools to tell a story are nothing more than smelly loafers and your chatty butthole. So, I do my best “Junior” impersonation and start growling, with loud sounds of spraying, water gulping and, inexplicably, rainfall. The flow is fierce, and I react accordingly to it by moaning and growling, uttering the occasional “shit!” as both an exclamation and a statement to the obvious.

This goes on for a couple of minutes and, in the aftermath, the bathroom was so quiet you could hear the silence. This could be because Nancy was either shocked, afraid or passed out; even though I couldn’t smell my own shite, he could. I take some toilet paper and commence clean-up duty before I truly stink up the place (I’m just guessing at this point since, if you haven’t taken in the moral here, everyone loves the smell of their own shit) and there’s not one peep out of the stall next door. I might be guilty of second degree murder as I didn’t kill him by throwing shit at him, but he just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time… whatever, at this point I concluded that it would be a good idea to wipe up and leave.

Wrapping up, I was about to flush when the most unexpected thing happened: Nancy twitched. This told me he was alive, but took a page off “Jurassic Park” and believed that if he stayed still for long enough I would ignore him and leave the bathroom. Poor kid, too; if he did the deed prior to my arrival, I wouldn’t want to be him. And if he didn’t, I wouldn’t want to be him either. People don’t like other people hearing them take a dump, as if they were some kind of freaks. Hey, Jessica Alba shits yellow loafers and, knowing this fact, I’d still provide the proper dose of cockage on her. Get over it.

Nancy’s penalty for trying to play smart? I flush, but I stay in the stall. I lower the lid, sit, spread my legs and decide to get some shut-eye for a minute or two. Mind you that I’ve been in the bathroom for around 10 minutes at this point and Nancy was already there; he must’ve been scrambling to figure out what to do. I imagine it exactly like in the original “Star Trek,” when the Enterprise gets hit by a repulsor ray or whatever and the whole crew wobbles from side to side while sparks are flying and smoke is coming out of the button panels that do nothing but flash uncontrollably. I think: “Defcon-5, shithead. What are you gonna do?”

So, we stayed on our toilets for another 5 minutes.

People came in, took a leak in the only available urinal, (some of them) washed their hands and left while Nancy and I had our little endurance contest. After a while, I realized that Nancy would jeopardize his job in order to wait for me to leave, so I ultimately released my death grip, washed my hands and walked out. 15 minutes of cowering in fear, a turd sticking out of your ass and you can’t deploy it because you’ve made it your life’s mission to not make a God damn sound. It’s like girls wearing stilettos: they know they’re uncomfortable and walking actually takes a considerable amount of concentration, but they still do it for the sake of appearances.

I understand why some people wouldn’t take a dump in a bar’s bathroom since, for the most part, they’re breeding grounds for the sickest living organisms science has yet to discover, but when you can’t take a dump in peace for the sake of saving face, then there’s something wrong.

So, bathroom etiquette? Simple:

• Piss and crap freely, without reservation.
• More than three wiggles after urinating and you’re officially masturbating. Knock it off.
• Say it loud: You crap and you’re proud!
• Please wash your hands after you’re done. Panamanians have the habit of saying “hello” with hand shakes and the like. Spare me the trouble of catching some fucked up illness because you’re dirty and clean up.

With these tips and the cautionary tale I just presented to you, you’re on your way to a healthier, more liberated you. The next time you walk into a bathroom stall, don’t be afraid to let your true feelings out… society will thank you for it.

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