When Urinals Attack

I learned an important lesson in preparation when a urinal recently attempted to end my life.

I know what you must be thinking. How could such an act be committed in today's public bathrooms, where urinals have become cleaner, friendlier--heck, many even spray a pleasing scent of potpourri when you flush (*if* you flush, for some of you out there)! Are you saying that these trusted urinary companions are even capable of harboring homicidal tendencies?

Yes, of course I am. Don't be an idiot! You can see how man has mistreated it's tool; casually tossing his cigarette butts into it, writing derogatory terms on it... sometimes even missing the bowl. And you ladies who have urinals on your dorm floors--I don't even *want* to know what you could be using them for. This obviously leads to feelings of frustration and embarrassment for our porcelain friends, and some even try to exact revenge. Most used to be content by just "accidentally" spraying a small amount of water on us after we flush. But apparently that has not been enough for some, especially the left side urinal on the first level of Dunleavy that attempted to murder me.

It all started naturally enough. I had snuck quietly out of my film history class after consuming roughly the Amazon's daily rainfall in Aquafina. I went to the bathroom, did my business, and flushed. I began to wash my hands, and then I sensed it. That same sort of sense that people in horror movies have. And just like how they open the door anyway and end up stapled in the eyes by Jimmy the Killer Copy Boy, I chose not to run and went back to the urinal. The flushing noises had continued far more than they normally do, and the water was building up, faster and faster, until (and I still have nightmares about this moment) the urinal began to overflow, instantly spilling gallons of water on my shoes and covering the floor of the bathroom.

At first I panicked. Should I run? Try to stop the flow? Why don't they have posters on the wall to tell you what to do in such a crisis?! Primal instinct took over at first, and I did what any man would naturally do if ever presented with this situation: I jiggled the handle. But that didn't work, and as the water level steadily rose around my feet I suddenly realized that the urinal was slowly trying to drown me. At this point desperation took over and without thinking I thrust my arm into the urinal.

If they *did* make posters for a urinal emergency, printed on the top in great big letters would be:

DON'T STICK YOUR ARM IN THE URINAL. FOR ANYTHING. MORON.

When my brain finally caught up and I took my hand out of the urinal in disgust, I decided that I needed to evacuate and seek help. I ran back to the movie room, shoes sopping, and told Dr. Murphy about the barbaric attempt on my life that had just occurred.

"The urinal is overflowing?" he said.
"Yes!" I replied.
His face went blank for a moment, then he finally said, "That is a problem..." Obviously the poor man had been struck by the intensity of the matter. We went back to the scene of the crime. Knowing that I had gotten away, the urinal had stopped, and the water that had once threatened to asphixiate me had been swept away by the drain. Yes, the most primitive of man's excretory utilities, the long-forgotten Hole in the Ground, had saved my life.

As Dr. Murphy went to call a maintenance worker, I reflected on how lucky I was to be alive at that moment and on how an innocent urinal could have become so misguided. Then I remembered that I had stuck my arm in the filthy thing and spent the next ten minutes at the sink.

Am I over exaggerating on this whole thing? Possibly. But be forewarned that at any moment, in any bathroom, there could be a killer, silently waiting for you to depress that little silver handle that will lead you to your doom. Take your chances if you wish, but as for me, I'm digging a hole in the ground.