This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.

After 63 years on this planet, I have a lot of public restroom experience. This experience is rapidly increasing along with my age and incontinency.

Before I shuffle off, I want to pass on some of my lavatory wisdom to a generation concerned about who should be allowed in which restrooms.

Here's what I know for sure. Public restrooms are places designed to get rid of something that's bothering you. You go in, do your job, and get out. Plain and simple.

It could be a bladder or bowel elimination, either yours or that of a small child belonging to you. Public restrooms are also handy places to dispose of drugs, guns, knives, the contents of your stomach and/or pet waste.

For normal people — of whom there are fewer than we like to think — a public restroom should never be associated with a sexual encounter. Not only is it unhygienic, but there's very little privacy. It's the last place most people expect to witness a sex act.

My first negative experience with a public restroom was in the ninth grade, when I tossed a large firecracker into the girls' restroom. I might have gotten off easy but for the fact that the firecracker was wrapped in wet manure and tinfoil.

Got a three-day suspension for that one, a drubbing from the Old Man, and the undying enmity of several cheerleaders, all of whom had large boyfriends or brothers.

The best experience I had in a public restroom was reaching one on a dead sprint two seconds ahead of what felt like a small grizzly bear attempting to claw its way out of my bottom. I almost wept when I found all the stalls occupied. Fortunately, there was a handy trash can.

The worst restroom experience is when I was a cop and found myself assigned temporarily to a multi-agency taskforce. The idea was to hang out in restrooms and wait for someone to approach me with a sexual proposition.

In a couple of cases, realization of what was going on resulted in the suspect going completely nuts. We ended up wrestling on the floor of one of the most unsanitary places in the world.

After a dozen or so of these arrests, I got depressed and started allowing loiterers a glimpse of my badge before they advanced the situation beyond the point of no return. It was a real mood killer. My stats immediately declined to the point that I was sent back to patrol.

The restrooms in basic training had no privacy whatsoever. I learned to do my personal business in full view of 30 other guys showering, shaving or using the facilities themselves. It was proof that a human being can get used to almost anything.

That wasn't the most embarrassing moment, though. That occurred in a restaurant when I made the wrong turn into a restroom.

It wasn't until I was seated and fully occupied that a feminine voice in the next stall said, "I don't think you belong in this one."

Looking down, I noticed a pair of well-manicured feet sporting scarlet open-toe high heels.

It was too late to change my mind, so I apologized and tried to get small. She laughed and said, "It's OK. Just let me finish first and make sure my husband didn't see you come in here."

I have no idea whether I ever — including during the task force time — shared a restroom with a transgender person. It probably wouldn't have bothered me if I had. It's always been the least of my concerns in a restroom.

When you gotta go, you just gotta go.

Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.