Anyone who has ever seen the 90’s Hercules series know that the gods are petty and cruel. One never expected to meet that vicious divinity in the most vulnerable place on earth – the pub toilet.
See, getting drunkards to wash their hands in the first place is half the battle. So installing a machine that is about as efficient as a fork at a purée party is truly diabolical.
Yes, the very same society that wondered how COVID could rip through population installed hand drying devices that make your shorts look like a delicious, absorbent roll of Quilton.
See, if paper towels are available a punter will get those paws nice and wet. In full knowledge that the absorbent material will mean they aren’t throwing out wet fishes to mates or dropping their pint due to the unbearable slippery dippery’ness of soap & condensation.
Now, it’s a scientific fact, that people, especially drunk bogans, will probably skip the hand washing stage if they are only faced with an air blower and the bathroom is empty. It’s that or having wet hands for the next 15 minutes.
If such a grub is unlucky enough to encounter a bustling public toilet they may be forced to try their luck with the archaic hair dryer in an attempt to wash off the residue from their half arsed attempt at washing their hands.
Instead of drying the hands in any meaningful way, the hand dryer simply moves the (probably) tainted fluid from the cretin’s hands to the floor of the pub. Creating a primordial ooze of various infections that this punter has picked up during their daily experience wallowing in the pig-pen of civilisation.
Not only are these mechanical pieces of crap ineffective but they are also as loud as fark. So after the sweet release of the piss, you will no doubt be aurally ambushed by the sound of a machine that should have gone out with the Dodo.
Then again, they do serve quite a useful purpose. Given that you are probably shithammered and struggling with the complexities of aim, the old school hand dryer is a very effective tool for drying out the dirty spicks & specks on your disgusting pants.
One hasn’t lived until they’ve held their pissed covered pant front up towards the stream of hot air in a vain attempt to convince the pub that you are a civilised human being.
You are not. So accept that hand dryer. Learn to live with it, as in reality you deserve no better.
Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?
