Life is full of unwritten rules for all the important things that no one ever thought to write a rule about, like taking a dump at work or not bowling a beamer first ball in backyard cricket.
The dump rule usually kicks in around age 13 or 14 when the homophobes at school stop kicking cubicle doors in like they have done their entire school life, thanks to the onset of puberty and the fact that their chopper has started to look decidedly teeny when compared to those actually taking a crap. From that point on the rules for men defecating in a public place are set in stone and are pretty much obeyed by all. Except the guy who used to kick down toilet doors. He spends most of his adult life sitting on the toilet wondering why his pecker stopped growing in College.
Men’s shitters, unlike the magical mystery world that is the female rest room, are not blessed with multiple thrones. We’re lucky if we get two to service on average, 40 guys per floor. Now each of them is going to unwrap a picnic bar at least twice a day, three times if the going is good, so unwritten rules are essential in ensuring a smooth transaction and a pleasant experience for all. Otherwise its carnage and the sinks and urinal would get used - which is often the case if Mr High Fibre gets in early and puts a cubicle out of action. At my work, we even have a shower in the men’s which is definitely an option in the event of a full house, but I suspect only those with the consistency of Mr Whippy are going to find the going good in there.
It works a little like this: Dumper A kicks things off when he parks up in the morning and gets things going. In due course Dumper B will arrive and it’s at this point shit gets serious (literally). Dumper A must begin the paperwork, making enough noise in the process to drown out Dumper Bs down trou, throning and any embarrassing sound affects that usually occur after holding in a turtle head all the way from one’s desk to the cubicle. Whilst Dumper A flushes, belts up and washes his hands, Dumper B is charged with releasing the mother load then and there whilst under the cover of the noise screen supplied by Dumper A. Dumper B can then enjoy his time in quiet contemplation until the arrival of Dumper C, at which point the process begins again.
Simple huh? But then there’s always someone who wants to stuff it up for everybody. Like Silent Guy who sits in silence the whole time, forcing anyone arriving into an awkward standoff that is only broken by the occasional squeaky fart that slips out from a nervously puckered anus. Or Mr Power Turd, who has hardly gotten the tweeds down when something akin to 63 baby potato’s dropping from a great height into a bucket of water can be heard. Let’s not forget Mr Explosion, who makes like an egg in the microwave and spends 30 minutes having to mop himself and quite possibly the walls, up afterwards. These guys are messing with the karma of the carzie. One day I'll be a dinner party guest of theirs and I'm going to take a dump in their cistern at home as a payback – after a few days it'll reek but they'll never find where the smell is coming from. Pure genius.
And what about the unwritten rule that pertains to not being able to tell a colleague or mate that you just had one hell of a sexy dream starring her? There’s nothing to stop you telling them of course but in my considerable experience, most girls don’t dig it, which confuses me to this day because wouldn’t it be the ultimate compliment knowing you were in someone’s dreams? When Big Al told me at work the other day he had had a dream about me I was right chuffed, only he wouldn’t go into any detail and now I just feel dirty.
And it’s not something you necessarily want to tell the wife either, although she has no hesitation in telling me about all her deep sleep rendezvous with various movie and rock stars. With inequality like that is it any wonder so many men are falling victim to that terrible social affliction that often goes un-noticed, self rape?
My mate Bruiser had a PG13 one night many years ago over Grace Kwan off Shortland Street and has had a soft spot for girls of the Asian Persuasion ever since. Not that he’s scored any since but it does go some way to explaining his close friendship with our good mate Matty, the four foot two Asian man in the flared trousers.
So I guess I’ll have to play by the rules and keep that one to myself. Maybe the memories will keep me focused during the next silent standoff I have in the men’s.
P.S Rach, I had a dream the other night. I was great, you were a close second.
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