What do I hate? Let me tell you. I hate “foot flushers.” To be more specific, it’s the urinal foot flushers that I hate the most. For those of the female persuasion, or who for any other reason don’t understand what this means, allow me to elaborate. As you may or may not know, the urinal is a wall-mounted device to collect the liquid waste from a man type creature, a bipedal man type creature that is. Being a wall-mounted receptacle, the flushing handle is then located at about chest level. Now since the biological mechanism that a man uses to relieve himself is what could be described as an “outie” it should be obvious that in order to complete the bathroom process, a typical man has to, in some form or fashion, hold his “outie”. So, the obvious question is begged… How does one most sanitarily flush the urinal? At least one, but possibly both, hands are now contaminated. If you care about those coming after you, you can flush with an elbow, or possibly a forearm. But generally we can all just flush with a part of our hand that is least likely contaminated. All well and good, we can all go about our day happy and whistling. Oh but now the “foot flusher” enters the picture. There’s those guys who I suppose can’t stomach the mere thought of having a part of their body coming contact with anything that may have touched another guy’s “outie.” So the obvious answer is to muster up their best Bruce Lee and lift a foot and whack that flush handle.
Before I continue, allow me to digress a little about boys (and sadly men as well). Any of you out there who happen to have that Y chromosome, or have lived with someone who does will know of the poor aim many men have. Many factors can play into this: age (young and then old), animated conversation, and of course alcohol consumption. The British use the phrase “pissed” to describe drunk, and that is an apropos word here. Sadly, men tend to aim poorly and dribble.
It should be obvious, to even the most casual of observers, what the floors around a urinal are like. That foot. Lifted in preparation for a foot flush. Oh the unspeakable horror of disgust clinging to the sole of the shoe, just waiting to be deposited on the flushing handle… The flushing handle that is waiting for me, singing to me; like a Siren call: “come flush me”. I shiver with revulsion just knowing that “foot flushers” exist in this world. And they compel me to eye every manual-flushing urinal with suspicion and loathing.
Oh “foot flusher” how I despise you. And peaches. I hate peaches too.