Washing your hands in public restrooms

My post was going to be some brilliant shit this morning, but I ended up scrapping it at the last moment because I wanted to talk about something far more important. Washing your hands in public restrooms.

Now I don’t know about you, but the act of relieving myself into a urinal is pretty much autopilot for me now that I am approaching 38 years old. No hands, no worries, no problems. I am not some repressed asshole child of hippies who was born into a “birthing tub” and taught to hold his dick with two hands while being sensitive and burying umbilical cords in the backyard and shit like that. I just whip out my dick and do my fucking business. If I happen to be wearing suit pants with a complicated zipper or some shit, I may enlist the subtle very light touch of an index finger to balance my dick in place, but that’s fucking it.

Well, as a creature of always being out of the house, I do a lot of public pissing and most public bathrooms are the absolute fucking worst to inhabit. Let alone being forced to breathe that motherfucking airport mens room prostate cancer air from all the traveling “I am an enterprise selling into your vertical” load of gigantic bullshit salesmen traveling all around the country pretending to be upstanding family men while buttfucking effeminate Hilton front desk clerks named Chad.

I was eating at a half-assed restaurant in Palo Alto, California last night and ventured into the mens room to take a piss and perform my “no hands urinal arc a stream and leave” technique. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed some dyed beard father of a five year old at the age of 72 typical bay area motherfucker staring at me as I attempted to leave without touching a single solitary piece of bathroom equipment. He suddenly had the balls to blurt out, “Aren’t you going to wash your hands”? If I could have gotten away with stabbing this palm pilot stylus holding needle dick in the throat with my car keys, I would have done it with no fucking remorse right in front of his organic graham cracker eating douchie five year old. It took all the fucking intestinal fortitude within me to just walk out of the bathroom without committing a homicide and return to the table where my ex-girlfriends best friend (isn’t that usually the way) was waiting for me.

Let me explain something to those readers who may not understand my rationale for not washing my hands in public bathrooms. I don’t know about you, but my cock happens to be probably one of the cleanest parts of my body. Not because it doesn’t get used, assholes… I am just a fucking two shower a day germaphobic liquid soap cock scrubbing lunatic. A responsible man who keeps his dick clean. And I guarantee you that NO PUBLIC RESTROOM, I don’t care if we’re talking Four Seasons Hotel quality, will ever be as clean as my cock. A family of four would be delighted to be served dinner using my dick. There is nothing cleaner.

The moral of the story is this: I am not a vindictive asshole who normally goes out with his ex-girlfriends best friends. Having the baggage of angry failed relationships is not something I subscribe to. For sanity purposes, I like to keep things Mr. Rogers friendly with anyone whom I’ve shared my bed, her mothers bed while on vacation, the backseat of my mafia Chrysler 300, the downstairs storage room of a Crate & Barrel, etc… If you are broken up for at least 7 days and the ex-girlfriends best friend is the one who contacts you, the shot clock should be reset from that day forward. Thank you for allowing me to waste your time with my bullshit.