I’ve got a┬ whole littany of bathroom pet peeves. In fact, I’ve written an entire post┬ on poop etiquette. Consider this an┬ epilogue, for I could not possibly sum up my philosophy on bathroom habits in a few┬ trite paragraphs.
Guys, I know you┬ will probably not┬ relate to anything I am about to say, because most of you will poop anywhere and in front of anyone. This is something you take great pride in, along with the color,┬ texture and size of your kill. You’d┬ take a duke┬ in the reflecting pool of the Washington Monument if it meant three of your homies could be there to witness its girth.
Girls, on the other hand, we have issues about pooping in public. On those rare occasions when we are forced, either by nature or circumstance, to do so, the healing process can take weeks. In fact, we have been┬ known to quit talking to, if not altogether avoid,┬ people that we’ve pooped in front of.┬ I sometimes wonder if this isn’t what caused the rift between Madonna and Courtney Love. We may never know.
Now we all poop, and we all know that we all poop. But nevertheless, on any given day, you will find me holed up in the handicap bathroom stall (i.e. the crapping condo), waiting for some dumb ass to leave so I can get on with getting on. These lurkers┬ wash their hands, fluff their hair and cook┬ up skillets of corned beef hash,┬ knowing damn well that┬ I┬ am┬ sitting not ten feet away, quivering and shaking as every inch of my being denies what is the most natural of body functions.┬ I grit┬ my teeth and rock back and forth, hoping that something — anything — will swoop down and pluck this interloper out of┬ my midst┬ so┬ I can get to steppin.’
Through the cracks in the stall,┬ I can see the woman lingering. Oh good god. Hurry the fuck up! Dry your hands. Throw away the paper towels. Now head towards the door. No! No no no! Do NOT under any circumstances re-tuck your shirt. At this point, I’m beginning to re-think my modesty. Why put myself through this? Let’s just get on with the show. But by now, I’ve been damming up the flood waters for so long, that┬ a supernatural┬ amount of gas has accumulated. It seeems nature is one powerful bitch. Suddenly, the Grand Canyon doesn’t seem so impressive. Let a little pressure build up, and you’ve got yourself┬ the┬ eighth┬ world wonder.
As I ponder the magnificence that is my lower g.i.,┬ she leaves.┬ No sooner does the door click shut then BLAMMO! An unholy sound emanates from below as a poop the size of a Labrador┬ snakes out of my back end. Mission Control, I think we’ve blown an o-ring.
But that’s neither here nor there, for┬ at this moment, I feel the cool waters splashing up against my withers. Now you all know the extreme comfort that one experiences after Elvis leaves the building. Some have visions. Others hear choruses of angels. Me, I feel this sweet white wave of comfort. It embraces me like a forgiven child. In the immortal words of Steven Tyler, I could stay in this moment forever, that is, if it weren’t for the pressing need to deliver┬ the requisite┬ mercy flush.