My Grass Is Greener

So, here’s the thing: if you have time to ASK for directions to the bathroom, you clearly don’t have to go bad enough to warrant a trip.

My lovely girlfriend, Tyler (yes, its a girl), is constantly asking for assistance in finding the nearest facilities. I understand some people aren’t naturally built for water retention like me (I drank a gallon of water once leaving Savannah and didn’t pull over until Macon), but seriously: if I’m in public and I have time to ask somebody how to get to the loo; I’ve got time to get myself either:

a. Home
or
b. Outside

Either of which I definitely prefer to any single room in the world where more than 25 semi-naked men have conducted the elemental business of life.

I do love urinals for their gleaming white utility and function, but I don’t care if its gold-plated, brand-new, or recently Cloroxed into oblivion; I prefer the front grass to the Long Porcelain Row and I don’t care WHOSE yard we’re in. Public germs are 100% airborne, and thats a fact.

But rest easy; that was for free - this isn’t another blog about public bathrooms. Aunt Greer, Commandant of The Appropriateness Gulag, can breathe a sigh of relief.

What I’m getting around to, in a roundabout kind of way, is that I love my basement workshop.

I love it so much that I just consulted with my friendly neighborhood contractor on the logistics of installing my very own gleaming white, used by only me and Santa, commercial-grade, stand-up urinal; right next to my workbench.

Turns out: it CAN be done.

Santa better get his fat ass busy laying in a supply of those little blue urinal cakes this year because The DudeRanch is strictly BYOUC.