A bare-assed hero
This Sunday, I was at the Air Canada Centre to see the Toronto Rock win the Champions Cup, tying the National Lacrosse League record for most championship wins. (And it’s a good thing Maple Leaf Sports & Entertainment gets to periodically discharge the ACC Jumbotron’s fireworks and confetti cannons whenever the Rock wins the NLL championship; if MLSE waited for the Leafs or Raptors to get around to winning something, a sad cloud of dust and cobwebs would probably shoot out.) And yet, theirs wasn’t the most impressive feat on display that afternoon. I personally extended my streak of always seeing the hometown team win when in attendance at the ACC to 6-0, thus bolstering my case that MLSE would be well advised to give me season tickets for all its teams. And yet, mine wasn’t the most impressive feat of the day either.
Between quarters, I headed to the washroom for my remarkable (but not very impressive, because it reflects poorly on the tininess of my bladder and willingness to disturb people between me and the aisle) third visit. When I got there, I stopped short, dumbstruck to see a guy standing at the bank of urinals with his jeans around his ankles, completely bare-assed.
I gaped in amazement and then glanced around furtively at the other men waiting for their turn, mentally communicating, Oh my God, are you all seeing what I’m seeing?! They all stared ahead impassively, as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening. It was just like the time in my freshman English class when the professor casually translated a bit of Chaucerian English to cunt and I gawked around the room in a wild-eyed frenzy only to see my classmates all dutifully taking notes, with nary a raised eyebrow. Then I locked eyes with an eight-year-old boy, and we both tittered.
The spot on the right-hand side of the bare-assed guy opened up. “Uh, you go ahead,” I said to the guy behind me. “I don’t have to go.”
“Eh,” he said, not moving. “I’m good.”
The spot to the left of the bare-assed guy opened up. No one moved to fill it. Finally, he finished his business and pulled up his jeans. Zipping up as he turned around and strutted away, he said to everyone and no one, “And that is how you get comfort room.”
When carving out territory can be a problem in the primitive facilities often found at stadiums and arenas, which often feature trough-style group urinals and the like, this was definitely a bold maneuver for buying a little elbow room, not to mention making sure no one sneaked a peek. This man certainly straddled the fine line between genius and madman. And straddling anything with your pants around your ankles is an impressive—perhaps even heroic—feat.
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