In the aftermath of the election, my first instinct is to grab just enough limes to prevent scurvy and flee to the wilds of Canada. Lions, tigers and nationalized health care, oh my!

Before I do that, however, I’m gonna need some answers.

Seriously, though, what exactly comes over people when they step into that voting booth? There has to be some psychological explanation, or is there just asbestos in those curtains?

No, fellow hell-bound sodomites, we are all prone to make the same mistake: when alone — or at least when you think you are — we make some really stupid decisions.

Take a CCL weenie bin for example.

Is it an objectively horrible idea to get your Bradley on in there, pressed against the cool formica tabletop? Probably. Do an absurd number of you still do it? As someone who is in possession of a black light, I can confidently say “hellz yeah.”

To quote my dear friend Katie:

“People will have sex anywhere, and they do. Umm — well, at least I think they do,” she says.

And the reason? When you’re sitting there, the dictator of your cubicle microcosm with its white walls and fluorescent lights, it seems like a really good idea. I mean, who’s gonna care, right?

Well, I have a feeling the guy who gets a nasty case of genital warts while studying for his Cold War midterm might be a little peeved, especially when they break out the liquid nitrogen at DUH.

It deserves to be said, however, that even I, THE Bradley Bailey, am guilty of this same sin. Why, just this week, in my bathroom, one of the lovely ladies in my hall placed a typewritten note requesting that I “clean up my razor shavings.”

At first, I was horribly taken aback. I mean, who wouldn’t want little pieces of moi for effigy and/or recreational purposes?

And furthermore, what business is it of yours what I do in the bathroom? I suppose this means you want me to stop chronically masturbating in the shower too! What is this, Soviet Russia?!

Then I read the second line of the note, which said “We all have to use this sink.”

Oh. My. God.

I instantly regretted the time I’d hooked up in that shower sophomore year; the time in my friend’s roommate’s bed; and that other time on the table in the Trumbull seminar room.

This land is my land. This land is your land. But only right now. Next year, or maybe even tomorrow, someone has to bathe or sleep or teach Milton in your harlot’s den of lust so the least you can do is invest in a vinyl tarp! Nothing can stain a vinyl tarp!

And yes, my mother does read this column!

You see, kiddies, when you’re all alone and you feel like no one’s looking, you’re capable of things you never thought possible.

Now, clearly there are many more minor offenses that, while less scandalous, are still really bad ideas. Even if you don’t realize it until you’ve been birthed from the secure womb of your isolation — yeah Women’s Center!

Recently, I made the mistake of abusing’s seemingly innocuous “poke.” Oh, of course in real life if you “poked” someone you barely knew, you’d probably get slapped and maybe even sued. Despite all this, though, in front of the warm glow of my computer screen, I felt compelled to poke. And poke I did.

Later that week, I ran into my “pokee” on the street and, lemme tell ya, a poke, even a reciprocated one, does not a conversation make. I mean, what the hell do you do after a poke? Do you actually physically poke them? Or maybe you should just pretend it never happened? Why isn’t there another option like “poke back, this time really hard”? Where and in what spirit did I even poke? Playfully in the face? Gently in the tummy? Or was it like a malicious shot to the left kidney? And, oh sweet Jesus, what did I poke WITH?

In truth though, a stupid poke, or even self-gratification in a Yale shower — and you know who you are, all of you — is not that big of a deal when compared to someone’s vote.

I mean, you only get to vote for president every four years and, speaking personally, I probably “pull the voting lever” four times a day, maybe even five on weekends. It also goes without saying that you think about other people a lot more when you’re “casting your ballot” than when you’re actually casting your ballot, and maybe that’s the problem. If people actually could see what effect their decisions were really having outside the voting booth, especially on other people, things might have turned out differently.

No man is an island, no matter how much practice you get on weekends.

So, on that note, who wants to come with me to the woodlands of the great white North? I’ve got limes, so all I need is some tequila.

Bradley Bailey likes doing tequila body shots in voting booths, weenie bins and your shower.