The art of man

Being a guy is already the coolest thing ever - you can be a pirate, for one. Girls can only be pirates' wenches. You can be a Viking; women aren't allowed into Valhalla. You can be a cowboy, whereas chicks have to put up with being Injun princesses. There are probably other good things too, but those are the main points.
But the best thing about being a guy is peeing. The male form is so advanced that we can do it whilst standing up. Some genius who may or may not be Thomas Crapper, invented a toilet a few years back, and people have been tinkering with it ever since, just to get it right. As such, we have about twelve thousand varieties of buckets in which to pee.

I present

Mister Evil Breakfast's Guide to Public Toilets (male)

The first thing you will notice upon entering male public toilets is the smell. We can't help it, male toilets are the natural breeding grounds for with urinal cakes. Urinal cakes, as their name suggests, consist mainly of stale urine, and should not be eaten, regardless of how hungry you are. I believe they were at one point used as torture devices during World War II. They are also the only reason that we haven't been attacked and enslaved by an alien species.

The second thing you will notice is the choice between urinal and stall. The stalls are only there for decoration and overflow. You should never use a stall in a public toilet unless it is quite literally life or death. Even so, you should consider death. Most places will just have a big sheet of metal upon which to pee. Easy as. With some practice, you can avoid splashback onto your shoes, and more importantly, your neighbour's shoes. Sometimes you will find a grate that protects you from falling into the urinal. Use this grate wisely, and don't stand on it. Chances are, a billion people have already peed on it. Gross.

If there is a crowd in the toilet, don't feel like you should start a sing-a-long. Unless you're drunk, really drunk, and you have song in your heart. No one will deny you this. On second thoughts, it's probably better to sing to everyone in there than to make general chit-chat with one bloke you don't know, as he may think you're trying to pick him up. Unless you are. If that is the case, good luck. When you get to the front of the queue, look at the urinal and if you have to judge whether or not you could squeeze in, then No, You Shouldn't. If a stall becomes available, feel free to use it. Otherwise, wait patiently for a larger space to become available at the urinal.

Note: If you are using a stall to pee, don't close the door, otherwise people will think you're doing some private business in there. And you just don't need that kind of aggravation.

When it comes time to hand washing, it is recommended that you do, lest your hands and anything else you touch fall off. If the bathroom supplies handtowel, then you're one lucky punter. If not, use your jeans. The hand dryer things don't really work, and do you really want that urinal cake smell blasted onto your digits? Even worse are the ones with the towel in them that you just wipe and rotate. Gross. I hope the inventor of that monstrosity is stuck in the Blackboard Scratching Department of the Blackboard Factory. It exists, I went there on a school excursion once.

A few quick pointers:

- eyes front when you are at the urinal. This is obvious.
- don't drink your beer while you're peeing. It puts people off.
- if you drop something into the urinal - food, cigarettes, mobile phone... it's gone. Let it go.
- having a spew doesn't give you the right to occupy a space at the urinal/in the stall all night. Get it over with and get out.
- pushing a mate into the urinal might sound like a really funny thing to do, but it has consequences. Consider these consequences. Then push.
- you are permitted to adjust your hair while you're in the bathroom. You are not permitted to bring a razor or toothbrush.

Happy peeing, gents! And remember: No matter how much you shake and dance, the final drop goes in your pants.

eirolac a flah

An orange world; Henry lived in an orange world. It was like he saw everything through a haze of sweltering Martian heat. The houses were orange, the walls were orange, every car on the orange road was orange. The orange sun burnt in the orange sky, while the occasional orange cloud dropped an orange shadow over the orange grass. Orange dogs chased orange cats through orange streets while orange people walked the orange footpath to their orange buildings.

Henry's orange life was tragically cut short when he tripped on a seemingly invisible basketball and fell down a flight of orange stairs. If only someone had told Henry that he'd had Tic-Tac boxes taped over his eyes, he'd probably still be here today.

Mister Late Night Tele

Dear TV programming people,

I am writing to thank you for providing me with some brilliant late-night television. Lonely? You bet I am! So thank you for the endless advertisements of "hot, sexy babes" that are either waiting to take my call, waiting to be downloaded onto my phone, or waiting to meet me for some romance. The only problem is that I wasn't sure if the person that I was talking to, downloading or texting was my ideal partner. But there you were again to lend your sweaty, hairy hand. No sooner had I wondered if "Mister Evil Breakfast" and "Jane" were soulmates that you offered me a service to that would make sure I was doing the right thing, simply by using signs of the Zodiac. And then another service that offered the same results, but by using ancient Chinese text messaging traditions. And then another one using a foolproof mathematical formula. And then one that doesn't use anything but a random number generator. After using all of these "Love Rating" sms lines, I have discovered that Jane just isn't for me. I'm glad I found that out before I spent any money on an actual relationship with her. I did, however, spend over $5,500 on sms fees, but I think assurance is worth that.

Another great thing about being a late-night tv viewer is that you get all sorts of great information about erectile dysfunction. A lot. As in, twice per ad break. And the commercials are always hilarious and well acted, and handle this delicate situation with great discretion. One day, I too hope to play the piano with my wang. Oh how I dream.

And please, don't worry about putting on dull programmes late at night, just make sure whatever you put on is repeated a week later, or even better, the next day. I love Dave Letterman, really, and am incredibly happy that his show is on every night. The same show. Every night. "Wow, George Clooney is on tonight!" "Hey look, George Clooney's back on." "Boy, Clooney and Letterman must be best friends." "Fucking Clooney." "This Top Ten sounds pretty familiar. I hope George Clooney is on tonight."

And the Infomercials... I love them. I really really really really do. I swear. They are ingeniously crafted so that if you stay awake and watch them, you'll suddenly find yourself on the phone whilst reaching for your credit card. If you fall asleep on the couch in front of them, you'll wake up with the phone in one hand, your credit card in the other and a sick feeling in your stomach. The longer you watch Infomercials, the more sense they make, and nothing, NOTHING should stop you from having perfectly sliced carrots, perfectly clear skin, perfectly smooth legs, perfectly sculpted abs and perfectly empty bank account.

Long live Vermin.

But seriously, if you show that fucking ad with Tara Reid on it again, I will stab you with my Rock'n'Chop before you can even marvel at the German engineered handle (made in Taiwan).

Thank you, and goodnight.

Mister Evil Breakfast