Maak een gratis website met Weebly
The urinal for men is a real relief. You just unzip your fly and there you go, you can start doing what you were about to do. No more bullshit with dirty toilet seats you have to place upwards. Let alone that you, oops, urinate over the edge and have to clean it up with a little piece of toilet paper, on your knees of course. The urinal is the dream of every man.
You would think.
Because for some men, for some men the urinal is something devilish. An object made by a perverse imbecile. Someone who is too stupid to spell his own name right.
I’m one of those man who stand up to the urinal. Though without any success. Just a week ago I was sitting with a friend of mine in a brewery. I barely drank a pale beer and a triple, a portion of bitterballen (Dutch treat) was already on the way, and my bladder was about to burst. I tried to postpone, but after about ten minutes I asked for a time out and went in a hurry towards the challenged urinals. There was one man standing in front of one of the urinals. He looked over his left shoulder and saw me.
Shit, I thought. I’ve been spotted. Now I can’t go back. Reluctantly, I took my position and opened up my fly, my bladder still under a huge pressure. But the trickle of my neighbor was so fierce and intimidating that my bladder flinched. After several seconds the man looked over to my side.
Is there finally something going to happen? I heard him think.
I also asked myself. And yes, after about fifteen seconds it was there. A tiny, pathetic trickle. One could hardly hear it, let alone my neighbor.
It didn’t take long or my leaking tap already wanted to quit. My neighbor however, kept sandblasting the pot ruthlessly and with no shame.
How many liters will he urinate? I asked myself doggedly. And why do I have so little? It’s like I wandered for days through the dry fields of the desert without any water, instead of drinking a few strong beers.
I knew how to sustain just a second longer than the unknown man and that made sure I could somewhat walk with my head up high through the swing doors to the front.
The urinal is certainly not every man’s dream. It’s rather the place where the wheat is separated from the chaff. The difference is made between the real man and the wannabe. The cruel monkeys and the weaklings.
Let this be a liberating piece for all those women waiting in very long lines and biting their nails off until finally that one slow Mary is finished on the toilet.