Who Put The Assy In Classy?

So my wife and I were away this weekend, sans kids. We took a trip with good friends, to Newport, Rhode Island. Newport has a pretty darn good Folk Festival every year. We've been to it a few times now. In my opinion, there's nothing more relaxing than sinking into a low back beach chair and surveying the landscape of aging lesbians, dancing to songs of Anti-American protest, performed by Folk legends, I'd assumed were long dead. Good times...

The spirit of the weekend was carefree and earthy. The smell of horseshit and Patchouli Oil rose high above the masses in a cloud of hippie dust. There were tambourines and Falafel as far as the eye could see.

I was born in 1970, just missing the 60's and I was too young to remember the ending of the Vietnam War, Kent State and all of the other iconic moments of protest and social unrest. But I am old enough now to realize that Joan Baez is still a pretty hot piece of ass, as far as I can tell...

I whole-heartily embraced the carefree atmosphere. I didn't even wear cologne on the second day of the festival, out of respect for my new found hippie comrades. In perspective, this alone is astounding. I am from Long Island. I have religiously worn some form of cologne since my junior year of High School. The smell of freedom was potent enough for me that weekend, my friend. But there was one thing that took me by surprise; Something that completely stood in stark contrast to the toned down, non-materialistic vibe that I had succumb to throughout my time at the Festival.

This blasphemy!














After a day at the festival, I spent a bit of time relaxing in my friend's hotel room. It was a beautiful room right on the beach with a gorgeous rooftop terrace. It was far superior to our modest accommodations at the local Quality Inn (We chose the Quality Inn over the Comfort Inn, because we prefer quality over comfort.) down the road and a jarring juxtaposition to the asstastic Festival grounds, laden with Porto Potties that I had become accustomed to in the days prior.

After a few post festival cocktails with my buddy, I parted from the sun drenched roof deck in search of the water closet. I'm not sure if it was the Vodka and Vitamin Water, that through me for a loop or if my inner white trash reared it's ugly head but whatever it was, confused the hell out of me.

Entering the Bathroom; My Inner Monologue:

Self - "What is this curious, tiny, porcelain structure that rests beside the shitter?"

Classy Self - "You redneck moron! Everyone knows that classy joints like this have a pissing sink."

Self - "A pissing sink? I don't understand?"

Classy Self - "Yes, shit for brains. A pissing sink is like a urinal but way fancier. You can still piss in it but you turn on the faucet while you are peeing to wash away the mess. Why do you think there's no mint flavored hockey pucks?"

Self - "Ahhh, I get it. That's so cool. I guess I'll go in the pissing sink then..."

Cultured Self - "NO! You IDIOT! Don't listen to that jerkoff. He's about as classy as Roseanne Barr doing Shakespeare in the Park."

Self - "Holy crap. You scared the shit out of me. Don't sneak up on me like that."

Cultured Self - "Get a grip. I'm trying to save you from embarrassing yourself in front of your friends."

Self - "OK. If this isn't a pissing sink, than what is it? And hurry up, I'm gonna pee my pants in a second."

Cultured Self - "That my friend, is a transition sink."

Self - "A transition sink? That makes absolutely no sense to me."

Cultured Self - "Of course it doesn't. You've lived a sheltered life. Have you ever even been to France?"

Self - "Well, no but..."

Cultured Self - "Butt Hole is more like it. Allow me to enlighten you, my Long Island Loser. A transition sink is a very hygienic way to limit the transfer of germs after defecation."

Self - "Defecation?"

Cultured Self - "Pooping, dumbass!"

Self - "Right. Sorry."

Cultured Self - "After you do your business on the bowl, you reach over to the transition sink and cleanse your dirty paws before you touch everything else in site. This way, no germs are transferred to the flush handle, the doorknob or anything else in the restroom. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, so they say."

Self - "That's Genius! I can't believe I almost pissed in the transition sink. I'm such an idiot."

After relieving myself, I walk back out to the terrace and compliment my buddy on his fancy pants powder room.

Me - "Dude, Awesome shitter. Can't believe you guys have a transitions sink to boot."

Buddy - "What the fuck is a transition sink?"

Me - "Uh, nevermind."

For those of you out there that have never been to France and have no idea how to use a Bidet... I've wrangled these 8 easy steps, courtesy of Wikipedia, via the link below.

How to use a Bidet: 8 Steps (With Pictures)

Godspeed. May the French never have me Out-Numbered...