Monday, May 14, 2007

Toilet contretemps

See, me, I'm a generous and good-hearted pisser. I find the whole communal urination thing funny. If I go to a men's urinal in order to have that urea moment, and it's full (like my bladder) with a retinue of courtiers paying obeisance to the royal doulton (purveyors of fine piss-products, by appointment), then I will find it funny. And, being full of piss and bonhemie, I will comment on it.

But some, worshipping at the porcelain shrine, will find this disrespect of the library-silence upsetting, and will be forced (after involuntary exhalation on completion) to answer my happy observation with grunts of dissaproval.

Well, "bollocks," I say. Piss elsewhere, philistine. Realise it's the last club no feminist will fight to gain admission.

We've ceded the golf clubs, and anyone who wants to be a member deserves it in that Groucho Marx way.

We've ceded every last bastion of shithead masculinity. And when the ladies get within the fortifications, they look around, as they lower their muskets and sabres, and say "Fuck, is this what we were fighting to invade?"

Too right, nothing to see here, other than smug exclusivity (which you soon realise is its own reward, it's Fuck Hall without the barrier to entry).

So piss off men. You have to nothing hide except your inadequacy. Use signs, use membership restrictions (no member, no admission).

Urine denial.

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