Ahem, Part the Second

Or, An Open Letter to the Students Masturbating at the Urinal of the Third Floor Men's Room of Aged Philanthropist Hall

Dear Masturbators:

It’s time we had a frank, open discussion about your public habits. Despite years of schooling, you’ve decided that you must, you must masturbate in the third-floor men’s room right by my office. About a quarter of my trips to the restroom are marred by your obsessive, noisy, distracting, and just plain sad self-love. For God’s and Pete’s sakes, you’ve chosen to shake hands with the unemployed in a dank, poorly lit public restroom with stalls painted black and a window that looks out on a closed-in bit of roofing, a restroom that often runs out of soap. Have you no dignity, not even the barest shred of care for cleanliness?

Look, I understand The Call: you keep thinking about that ad on the side of the bus, or you almost asked that girl out but didn’t because she saw her friend across the quad, or you had an in-class argument with that girl who annoys you but also kind of turns you on, or you were listening to “We Are the Champions” and felt like the coolest motherfucker on the planet. We’ve all been there. (Well, maybe not “there,” but you know what I mean. Don’t you?) But believe me, you can wait. Even if you live far away from campus, you can hold it in.

I feel compelled to address you not only as a group, but also singly (though God knows you’ve been addressing yourself singly quite a bit). So here goes, in no particular order:

• Tall Guy: If you’re going to rub one out in public, at least have the decency to sit down. I can identify you; anyone who walks into the restroom can. Your entire head sticks up over the stall when you stand. You’re tall. Believe me, as a tall man, I understand how that goes. But not only do I immediately hear you working when I walk in, I can see your head shaking a bit. Oh, by the way, your hair looks uneven in the back.

• Radio: Can you hear me over the song you’re playing? I think you can, because I can hear the faint tell-tale sounds of a man turning Japanese, as the saying goes. I suppose I could credit you for trying to cover the sounds of your pleasure, but, quite frankly, it’s odd to sit on a toilet and hear a person quietly walk in, enter a stall, and turn on music. And could you really find nothing better than generic mid-90s rap? That seems like it would be too distracting. You couldn’t listen to, say, Kylie Minogue or Fiona Apple’s “Criminal”? Could you not find your Madonna CDs?

• Cool Shoes: If you’re going to play with yourself, for Thor’s sake, don’t wear a cool pair of shoes. You don’t want to ruin them. Oh, and could you tell me where I could get a pair? Seriously, those are cool shoes.

Sincerely,

Crazy L. Thing