"If You Sprinkle When You Tinkle" by Troy H. Cheek on Nov 14, 2005

If you sprinkle When you tinkle Be a sweetie And wipe the seatie!

I swear that if I see one more variation of this sign, I'm going to scream.

I have noticed that these signs only appear when men and woman share a restroom. You never see such signage posted in a men-only restroom. We either wipe up the mess or lay down a impervious layer of toilet paper. Or both. Or neither.

Likewise, I've been (un)fortunate enough to have been inside many a woman-only restroom on official business. I don't remember seeing any such signs. Women tend to make bigger messes around the sink.

I've discussed the signs with a few female acquaintances. Every conversation reduces down to basically "Well, you men are such disgusting creatures that we have to put up the signs to protect ourselves."

I find it amazing that I can make some innocent statement that we had to put up signs prohibiting parallel parking at work (because two women, in separate incidents on the same day, managed to drive their vehicles up over the curb and into the flower bed while attempting to park) and be immediately blasted as sexist, but women can state that men are the sole source of communicable diseases in a restroom and get away with it.

As I used to say in highschool when the teenage boys were accused of being horndogs but the teenage girls claimed to be chaste, "The boys have got to be getting it from somewhere."

Of course, there wouldn't be a problem with sprinkling if women could accept that the proper position for a toilet seat in a public restroom is 'up.' If you need to sit down, you put it down, then return it to the up position when you are finished. This serves several purposes. One, it protects from sprinkles. Two, it protects from the fine mist of fecal matter that spews out of the toilet everytime you flush and settles on every horizontal surface in the bathroom. Three, it makes the cleanliness of the toilet easier to judge, leading to more frequent cleaning.

Women insist on treating public toilets as if they are home toilets. A woman's toilet at home is kept closed and disguised by shag cozies. This is because the average woman tries to pretend that the toilet does not exist, much the same way she pretends that the only thing she ever does in the bathroom is check her makeup. Or, if she does do something more, it doesn't stink.

Not only do they want to keep the seat down, but they bemoan the lack of a lid, and complain when the janitor removes their doilies and flowers because of the fire code.

My girlfriend Kitten refuses to even consider raising the seat. The proper position is down and that's where it should stay. She doesn't even glance at the toilet to see if the seat is down before sitting, which has led to some interesting sounds coming from the bathroom in the middle of the night. Me being the man in the house, this is automatically my fault, even if the reason the seat was raised is because I was cleaning it earlier at her insistence.

Now, before someone writes in asking why men can't simply raise the seat prior to doing their business, I'll address that. You see, men and women see the restroom differently. Women go to the restroom like they're shopping: in groups with plans to stay a while. Men go to the restroom like they're shopping: by themselves with plans to get in and out as quickly as possible.

The typical trip to the men's room is for him to be passing the restroom and suddenly remember that he intended to drop in a half hour ago before he got busy. If he rushes, he just might have time to do his business now and still make his meeting. He rushes in, juggling briefcase and cellular phone, trying to unzip while kicking the stall door shut behind him. He stares at the wall, thinks of Niagra Falls, and things start to happen. It is only at this point that he thinks to look down past his bunched up shirt and around the papers he is clutching to notice that the seat is in the unnatural down position. He can't raise the seat while he's doing his business, as he has no free hand. He can't stop what he's doing in midstream because he will hurt himself. So, he must just aim as best he can and hope for the best. A quick wipe and flush and he's heading out the door.

Women, on the other, hand, have couches, community makeup counters, hair dryers, and (I swear I'm not making this up, guys!) snacks in their restrooms. We're lucky if we have toilet paper.

In my younger days, I never had a problem with sprinkling. Not only did I always hit the target, I could do so from two steps back. Alas, age and prostate problems have robbed me of this ability. No more can I climb to the top of the stalls and do my business from amongst the ceiling tiles with unerring accuracy. Not that I ever did that in my young, dumb, and drunk days, mind you.

Which reminds me of a story.

I was doing the Bastard Officer From Hell(tm) thing when the need to visit the restroom hit. The restroom nearest the Security Office was occupied. I knew it would be occupied for a while as a fellow security officer was in there. He was a short, squat white guy who happened to share the same name as a tall, lean black Olympic athlete. I call him Jesse Owens in my stories, so as not to use his real name.

Anyway, Jesse was constantly amazed at how often the rest of us had to visit the restroom. "What are you eating?" he'd ask, rolling his eyes as I'd head out the door for maybe the second time in the last six hours.

On the other hand, when Jesse did go to the restroom, you could count on him not being available to answer any calls for the next hour and a half.

I sought out another men's restroom and came to one that I seldom used because a) the door did not lock, and b) though it contained a toilet, urinal, and two sinks, there were no stalls or other privacy devices. I figured since I was just making a quick standing visit, this wouldn't be a problem.

The restroom was occupied, which isn't a problem for men as we don't make eye contact and ignore each other anyway. I did my business standing in front of the urinal as the man already present finished up his business standing in front of the toiler. I caught a flash of motion out of the corner of my eye. A lot of motion.

As discretely as I could, I glanced over to see why he was dancing about. The toilet seat was down and he was doing a hula dance which sprinkled his fading drops liberally across the seat. It looked like he was doing it deliberately.

"Excuse me," I said. "What exactly are you doing?"

"None of your business."

"This badge makes it my business, and that's private property you're whizzing on. What exactly are you doing?"

"Well, obviously, I'm making sure the seat is clean."

"Obvously," I said, using that tone of voice which indicates I felt it was anything but. Eventually, I got the complete story from him.

This man, who otherwise appeared normal and sane and sober, explained that his mother had taught him to do his business this way in public restrooms. Everyone was supposed to do so, but most people weren't raised correctly like he was. This is necessary because people are filthy disguisting animals who would never think to clean a toilet seat before sitting down unless it was obviously soiled. By sprinkling all over the seat, he guaranteed that the next person to sit down would wipe it off first, thus protecting him/herself from germs. Otherwise, they would walk in, see an apparently clean seat, and sit down.

I made the guy clean the seat with paper towels and hand soap before he left. And I made sure never to use that restroom ever again.

Copyright 2005 by Troy H. Cheek. Reprint with prior written permission only. Comments and questions to