Cocktail Party Factoid of the Day

A piece in the New Republic reveals that after an economist proposed etching a black fly near the drain of toilet bowls in a men’s restroom at an Amsterdam airport, "spillage" was reduced by 80 percent—"It turns out that, if you give men a target, they can’t help but aim at it."

Unfortunately, I have yet to find a woman who can fully appreciate the unique aerodynamics and visual distractions which, together, make the male urination experience more challenging than one would expect.

(hat tip: Slate)

3 Responses to Cocktail Party Factoid of the Day

  1. Ben's Very Private Friend says:

    After having a go at one of my boyfriends along the lines of “How hard can it be to get it all in the bowl?” he challenged me to try it myself. That is, aim for him. I failed miserably. It was also pretty gross.

  2. Limmonica says:

    This was funny! I was trying to figure out last evening, while discussing with my sister’s husband – as he took a picture of the black fly during his tryp in Germany. I had to put myself in the skin of a man in order to get the idea. He didn’t realize it untill I’ve explained it to him: “it’s a kind of chalenge – you must aim at it so everything will stay in it’s own place.” :)))) How comes that I find you talking about the same thing?

  3. I was staying on the beach in one of those tropical paradises at a place that had outdoor toilets, in sets of two.

    There was zero insulation between them, so every noise in the adjoining unit could be heard.

    Little did I realize one day that the sonic quality of my pissing was being evaluated by the woman in the stall next to mine.

    Later I was humiliated when she boasted how her mighty stream had shamed some poor schmuck’s pathetic dribbles.

    I swore at that moment to defend the sacred honor of my masculinity, and avenge this mockery of my urinating skills.

    The problem was how to fill my bladder near to bursting, and time it so I could debouch the next time she had to go.

    My solution was to drink a lot of beer and record (I was taping music) the ego-assuaging roar of a most urgent piss.

    I kept an eye on her that night and waited until she went to relieve herself.

    I dashed to get my player and couldn’t resist turning up the volume to a perhaps unnatural level as I occupied the stall next to hers.

    I waited until I heard her open the door to her stall and then I popped out triumphantly with my little bag.

    Imagine my indignation when she smirked as she glanced at my crotch, shook her head, and muttered, “It doesn’t live up to the billing.”

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