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Balls to the Wall

Literally.

ev · October 4, 2005

When you’ve written on the order of magnitude of a hundred thousand words on a litany of subjects—most of which have bothered you for one reason or another—sometimes you run a little short on inspiration. Not that there aren’t plenty of subjects on which a little indignation couldn’t be manufactured. (The earlier owner of my house who planted those six evergreens in my side yard comes to mind.) When you’re a good libertarian though, you have to let most goings-on wash over you, without suffering too much angst. Otherwise, you’d have trouble sleeping at night and you’d hardly be free.

Hence my last rant, motivated not so much by dissatisfaction, but by a burning desire to write about a bus driver who wouldn’t pick up nuns. In very much the same vein, Bolognese semiotician Umberto Eco states as inspiration for his seminal novel The Name of the Rose a desire to poison a monk. Joseph Drives a Bus is merely a brief salute to Eco’s sentiment.

Some weeks I find myself without an urgent need to accuse anyone, so I grasp for something to amuse myself.

This is another of those weeks.

Standing at the urinal in the Ship & Anchor last Tuesday, I wondered if most men take their balls out of their fly when they pee, or just their penis. I pondered this as I cupped my pebbles in my hand, and speculated as to whether that was typically my modus operandi.

I postuled that this behaviour might be situational. Perhaps when I’m in familiar surroundings, I feel comfortable enough to unpack all the gear. At work, I’ve noticed that I almost always uncrate the whole lunchbox, and that’s in a single-urinal-next-to-stall configuration. Very sheltered, and thereby safe.

The Saddledome, by contrast, is a much more exposed condition, and therefore a sausage-only affair. After two Saddledome-style heroin beer however, it’s sausage-and-links. (Hey, we’re all friends and Flames fans here.)

So I posit that familiarity, spatial exposure, and alcohol content all play a role. Using these factors, I’ve come up with some hypotheses. And since I have no intention of testing them beyond my own specific condition, they shall remain thankfully unverified in the world at large.

• First, I’ll assume that the natural condition for the adult human male is the balls-out position. All balls itch, so I can presuppose that all men would choose to comfortably air their genitalia as frequently as society will permit.

• I’ll further assume that the home is where this natural condition can be most conveniently and safely met. (I suppose the corollary to this would question whether or not the balls-out position determines domesticity: Home is where your googlies dangle.)

• I can then hypothesize that the proximity while peeing of a man’s ballocks to his body is inversely proportional to the distance between his balls and his home.

• Travel, for instance, removes the male and his package from the comfortable surroundings of home. Only when he learns how to function in the new environment and is able to achieve a level of comfort approaching that of home, will a man palm both stick and gears. (As further proof of this I can look to Italy, a country so marvelously inviting that the locals walk around perpetually shifting gears, imploring visitors to feel at home and do likewise.)

• Starting a new job is much like travel. It takes slightly longer than learning the photocopier and fax codes to feel sufficiently at-home to serve both the ham and eggs.

• This distance-from-home effect can be modified through two related variables. The first is physical exposure. If a man’s surroundings are smaller and more private—more cocoon-like—there is a greater chance of overcoming the effects of great distances between home and his hardware & drivers.

• The second is alcohol. The same gene that inspires men to pee off really tall things is in command here, compelling men to deploy their derrickman and roughnecks in public after they’ve had a few. As we drink, we often increase our comfort level within our environment, approximating a warm, blurry place where our cue and rack can be thrust out perpetually: the womb, our original starter-homes.

• The effects of alcohol consumption, it must be noted, are occassionally modified by standard urinal etiquette. For the few philistines who neither understand nor observe proper urinal etiquette, here is a quick refresher:

  Urinal Etiquette

  Given six urinals and a varying number of peers, the correct stall is as follows:

  
    | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
          #       #
  

  Stall Six is the only possible option. This is knowledge divinely bestowed upon all males at birth.

    | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
      #
  

  Stalls Five or Six are acceptable, but both have unfortunate consequences. Stall Five leaves open the possibility that some mouth-breathing idiot will then pick Six. Stall Six suggests you aren’t man enough to pee closer to the guy in the stall One.

    | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
  

  An empty bank of stalls allows you to take either position One or Six, ruling out the possibility of being bracketed by two other pee-buddies.

     | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
           #       #       #
  

  Not the most desirable situation. Stall One, however, mitigates against having to pee between two dudes, which should always be avoided.

   | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
         #           #   # 
  

  For the love of Pete, get this one right. Stalls One and Three pair you up with the guy at stall Two: What sort of message does that send? Stall Four is the only option.

   | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 |
     #   #           #   #
  

  Trick question. Wash your hands until someone leaves.

• Breaking of urinal etiquette invokes the jumblies-in position not out of some deep-seated Savannah reaction to the proximity of competing predators, but due to its evidence of a lack of understanding of cultural expectations. In effect, urinal-users are subconsciously tricked into feeling they are far from home, where North American standards of decorum are not observed. As postulated previously, the further you are from home, the closer you play your metaphorical cards to your chest.

That’s my theory. If I catch you trying to validate or disprove it while I’m in the washroom, I’ll pee on your shoes.

And while we’re on the subject of my speaker and parliament, please let me be clear about one thing. While I may ponder the limited partnership of both Samson & Sons, one thing is without a doubt: the buttoned-down opening in the front of my boxer shorts is useless, and shall remain forever unused.

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