Toilet Humour.... literally
Sep. 16th, 2002 01:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
boodiesent to me in a mailing list...
My mother was a fanatic about public toilets. As a little girl,she'd
bring me in the stall, teach me to wad up toilet paper and wipe the seat.
Then, she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat.
Finally, she'd instruct, "Never, never sit on a public toilet seat." And
she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing over the
toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh
make contact with the toilet seat. But by this time, I'd have peed down
my leg. And we'd go home. That was a long time ago.
I've had lots of experience with public toilets since then, but I'm
still not particularly fond of public toilets, especially those with powerful,
redeye sensors. Those toilets know when you want them to flush. They are
psychic toilets.
But I always confuse their psychic ability by following my mother's
advice and assuming The Stance.
The Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder is
especially full. This is most likely to occur after watching a
full-length feature film. During the movie sometime you'll have to go pee, and it is
nearly impossible with a full bladder to hold The Stance. You know what
I mean. You drink a two liter cup of Diet Coke, then sit still through a
three-hour saga because, for God's sake, even if you didn't wipe or wash
your hands in the bathroom, you'd still miss the pivotal part of the
movie or the second scene, in which they flash the leading man's naked
derriere.
So, you cross your legs and you hold it.
And you hold it until that first credit rolls and you sprint to the
bathroom, about ready to explode all over your internal organs.
And at the bathroom, you find a line of women that makes you think
there's a half-price sale on Mel Gibson's underwear in there. So, you wait and
smile politely at all the other ladies, also crossing their legs and
smiling politely. And you finally get closer. You check for feet under
the stall doors. Every one is occupied. You hope no one is doing frivolous
things behind those stall doors, like blowing her nose or checking the
contents of her wallet.
Finally, a stall door opens and you dash, nearly knocking down the woman
leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't
matter. You hang your handbag on the door hook, yank down your pants and
assume The Stance. Relief. More relief. Then your thighs begin to shake.
You'd love to sit down but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the
seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold The Stance as your thighs
experience a quake that would register an eight on the Richter scale.
To take your mind off it, you reach for the toilet paper. Might as well
be ready when you are done. The toilet paper dispenser is empty.
Your thighs shake more. You remember the tiny napkin you wiped your
fingers on after eating buttered popcorn. It would have to do.
You crumble it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than
your thumbnail. Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't
work and your pocketbook whams you in the head.
"Occupied!" you scream as you reach out for the door, dropping your
buttered popcorn napkin in a puddle and falling backward, directly onto
the toilet seat.
You get up quickly, but it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact
with all the germs and life forms on the bare seat because YOU never
laid down toilet paper, not that there was any, even if you had enough time
to.
And your mother would be utterly ashamed of you if she knew because you
touched a public toilet seat with your bare bottom, because, frankly,
"You don't know what kind of diseases you could get." And by this time, the
automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it
flushes, sending up a stream of water akin to a fountain and then it suddenly
sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper
dispenser for fear of being dragged to China.
At that point, you give up. You're finished peeing. You're soaked by the
splashing water. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a Chicklet
wrapper you found in your pocket, then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.
You can't figure out how to operate the sinks with the automatic sensors,
so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past a line
of women, still waiting, cross-legged and unable to smile politely at this
point.
One kind soul at the very end of the line points out that you are
trailing a piece of toilet paper on your shoe as long! as the Mississippi River.
You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and say
warmly, "Here You might need this."
At this time, you see your spouse, who has entered, used and exited his
bathroom and read a copy of War and Peace while waiting for you.
"What took you so long?" he asks, annoyed. This is when you kick him
sharply in the shin and go home.
This is dedicated to all women everywhere who have ever had to deal with
a public toilet. And it finally explains to all you men what takes us so
long.
My mother was a fanatic about public toilets. As a little girl,she'd
bring me in the stall, teach me to wad up toilet paper and wipe the seat.
Then, she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat.
Finally, she'd instruct, "Never, never sit on a public toilet seat." And
she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing over the
toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh
make contact with the toilet seat. But by this time, I'd have peed down
my leg. And we'd go home. That was a long time ago.
I've had lots of experience with public toilets since then, but I'm
still not particularly fond of public toilets, especially those with powerful,
redeye sensors. Those toilets know when you want them to flush. They are
psychic toilets.
But I always confuse their psychic ability by following my mother's
advice and assuming The Stance.
The Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder is
especially full. This is most likely to occur after watching a
full-length feature film. During the movie sometime you'll have to go pee, and it is
nearly impossible with a full bladder to hold The Stance. You know what
I mean. You drink a two liter cup of Diet Coke, then sit still through a
three-hour saga because, for God's sake, even if you didn't wipe or wash
your hands in the bathroom, you'd still miss the pivotal part of the
movie or the second scene, in which they flash the leading man's naked
derriere.
So, you cross your legs and you hold it.
And you hold it until that first credit rolls and you sprint to the
bathroom, about ready to explode all over your internal organs.
And at the bathroom, you find a line of women that makes you think
there's a half-price sale on Mel Gibson's underwear in there. So, you wait and
smile politely at all the other ladies, also crossing their legs and
smiling politely. And you finally get closer. You check for feet under
the stall doors. Every one is occupied. You hope no one is doing frivolous
things behind those stall doors, like blowing her nose or checking the
contents of her wallet.
Finally, a stall door opens and you dash, nearly knocking down the woman
leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't
matter. You hang your handbag on the door hook, yank down your pants and
assume The Stance. Relief. More relief. Then your thighs begin to shake.
You'd love to sit down but you certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the
seat or lay toilet paper on it, so you hold The Stance as your thighs
experience a quake that would register an eight on the Richter scale.
To take your mind off it, you reach for the toilet paper. Might as well
be ready when you are done. The toilet paper dispenser is empty.
Your thighs shake more. You remember the tiny napkin you wiped your
fingers on after eating buttered popcorn. It would have to do.
You crumble it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than
your thumbnail. Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't
work and your pocketbook whams you in the head.
"Occupied!" you scream as you reach out for the door, dropping your
buttered popcorn napkin in a puddle and falling backward, directly onto
the toilet seat.
You get up quickly, but it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact
with all the germs and life forms on the bare seat because YOU never
laid down toilet paper, not that there was any, even if you had enough time
to.
And your mother would be utterly ashamed of you if she knew because you
touched a public toilet seat with your bare bottom, because, frankly,
"You don't know what kind of diseases you could get." And by this time, the
automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it
flushes, sending up a stream of water akin to a fountain and then it suddenly
sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper
dispenser for fear of being dragged to China.
At that point, you give up. You're finished peeing. You're soaked by the
splashing water. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a Chicklet
wrapper you found in your pocket, then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.
You can't figure out how to operate the sinks with the automatic sensors,
so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past a line
of women, still waiting, cross-legged and unable to smile politely at this
point.
One kind soul at the very end of the line points out that you are
trailing a piece of toilet paper on your shoe as long! as the Mississippi River.
You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and say
warmly, "Here You might need this."
At this time, you see your spouse, who has entered, used and exited his
bathroom and read a copy of War and Peace while waiting for you.
"What took you so long?" he asks, annoyed. This is when you kick him
sharply in the shin and go home.
This is dedicated to all women everywhere who have ever had to deal with
a public toilet. And it finally explains to all you men what takes us so
long.
