I’m a dude and I adhere to the unwritten rules of being a dude. I open doors for women, I pay the full bill on dates and I tip my wait staff even if all I order is a frosty cold beer. Hell, I open doors for just about anyone. I’ll even be that dude who will hold a door for you despite you being 20 feet from the entrance, barely stepping onto the sidewalk from the parking lot.

I figure maybe a little of that is more of a courtesy thing than an actual dude rule but I still take it upon myself to do my thing.

Now on any given night when I’m a few rounds in at a bar, my bladder will inevitably reach its critical point of maximum urine containment. I’ll make my way to the restroom, relieve pressure on that dam to make room for the next couple of rounds, and wash my hands before making my way back to the bar again.

I’m there, standing over the sink as the water runs over my soaped up hands, when I hear another dude exiting a closed stall. He has just experienced the full might of Cabo Cantina’s nachos, complete with their melted blend of three cheeses and refried beans.

The man is already a hero in my book, but as I hear him flush his business away and open the stall door to make his triumphant return into the land of the living, I see him swiftly disappear back out into the crowd of patrons outside.

Hero, no more.

I try to make excuses for the dude. Maybe the dude had to rush his ass out to pay his tab. Maybe his parents didn’t love him enough. Maybe he just forgot his kid is still waiting in the car back at the parking lot two blocks away, pretty much convinced that dad is an asshole now.

Despite these plausible scenarios, I quickly realize two things: I’m overthinking the hell out of this and I’ve been standing over the sink with the water running for eight minutes now.

Of course, the answer was so simple. If you’ve read up to this point and are still wondering what in the blue hell he did wrong then you’re probably part of the problem.

Yes, in the third section of article seven of the unwritten dude rule book, it states that we don’t give a damn about shit like drama, or your status update on Facebook, or what the fuck Ed Sheeran is singing about this month – we just know ladies get down to him and Drake.

The point is, nowhere does it state in this carefully crafted and meticulously thought out unwritten rule book that you my dude, conqueror of the Cabo Cantina nachos, are to walk your candy ass directly out of the restroom without first paying a trip to the sink of destiny to wash your sins away with the soap of fate.

Maybe the dude was a trailblazer. Maybe the dude was taking a philosophical stance, using the act of walking away after leaving his mark on the toilet bowl as a metaphor for the crude manner in which we as individuals leave our mark on society. Maybe the very act of physically not washing his hands was an artistic piece of ironic creative expression that served as another metaphor for how individuals tend to wash their hands clean of any responsibility within society.

No, actually his parents just didn’t love him enough. You are one nasty ass sumbitch even if you think simply taking a piss gives you this weird pass to skip the sink of destiny or the soap of fate.

At some point in your journey home, you’re going to touch your face, rub your eyes and maybe discretely mine for gold up any one of your nostrils, you disgusting, steaming, stinkin’ sack of hot garbage. You may not know it then but I know you will, and when you do, you’ll be smearing not just your brand of fecal matter and bodily fluids, but other peoples’ — including my own — all over your face bruh.

That, my dude, isn’t just a metaphor for how the universe has a weird way of balancing itself out; it’s also just fact.

Sadly, I’m the irresponsible dick still letting the water run while thinking this whole thing out. We’re all idiots.