The Mothra Of All Houseflies
There are two major men's airport urinal manufacturers in America. How do I know this? Because they recently started marking a place to aim in their troughs. Half of the urinals have a nice, colorful, smiling animated bumble bee to mark the most splatter-free point, while the others have a black silhouette of a very realistic looking fly.
When I stand at a urinal, the first time I naturally look down is just before my body has allowed itself to relax enough to begin its natural disposal. It is at this most vulnerable of moments that one of two things now happen.
Half of the time it's like I'm a five-year-old rounding the corner of Main Street at Disneyland to unexpectedly discover Mickey Mouse's warm grin, as he waves me over for a hug and a picture. A mental release as rewarding and enjoyable as the physical one about to take place.
The other half of the time I literally think the Mothra of all houseflies is an inch away from my how-do-you-do and three minutes later I'm still counting down from ten, trying to mentally unkink the garden hose.
As if such an unfortunate singular experience isn't bad enough, after multiple occurrences of this, a far more public repercussion has emerged as an awkwardly unspoken theme in my personal life.
My wife thinks I like taking dumps at the airport.
