Mar
9
Second turd, same as the first
Filed Under Uncategorized | 50 Comments
March 9, 2007
Ooh, I’m glad to know you guys are with me on the You Excreted It, You Deal With It rule. Can I just gross you out a little bit more and say that another thing I really, really hate is when you discover someone else’s . . . well, there’s no better term than skid marks, on the bottom of the bowl? I have to concede there’s not much a person can be expected to do about that (although you COULD try flushing a couple more times, Mystery Dumper!), and at least the main event has been taken care of, but the fact that I can visually confirm the sheer weight of the turdage is disturbing. No, this wasn’t a floater, friends, this fucker went down periscope and scraaaaaped along the bottom on its exit journey . . . perhaps becoming trapped briefly in a horizontal position before the water suction turned it, like a kayak aiming towards the rapids.
Also, I’d like every woman using a public restroom to collectively agree on one approach to pushing the toilet handle. Either we ALL use our hands, or we ALL use our feet. I know some people use their feet to flush, because I’ve seen bottom-of-the-shoe evidence, and hell, I’ve done it myself in particularly skeevy restrooms. Once I did so, I wondered how many handles are typically stepped on with shoes that have also walked through—I can barely type this and boy I hope you’re not eating lunch—those globs of (gag gag gag) gooey mucusy spit on sidewalks. Yes, we can all wash our hands afterwards but STILL.
So! We should all as a nation either do the foot thing exclusively (which is a drag for the people who may be challenged by the task of balancing on one foot while holding a purse and some bags and possibly a squirming child), or agree to use hands only.
When I was in Japan in 2005 I couldn’t believe how advanced their (Western-style) toilets were. There were heated seats, recorded waterfall sounds to camouflage any indelicate explosives, and a plethora of buttons on each toilet, all of which I was too intimidated to try despite the helpful instructions.
I mean, maybe “rinses your posterior with warm water” is a misleading translation for “blasts a piping-hot enema right up your tooter”, you know?
Okay, ENOUGH ALREADY with the toilet talk, I’m sorry to have subjected you to it two days in a row. Can we move on to the honey, which some of you are awfully suspicious about? I wrote about it over here (you should also check out the Moo minicards review becase those cards are very cool), so please come visit and get edumacated about the benefits of using insect byproducts on your pretty little mug.
Mar
8
Crude offerings
Filed Under Uncategorized | 63 Comments
March 8, 2007
We have powder rooms rather than multi-stall bathrooms at Workplace, which is usually really nice, except for when I open the door and am greeted with the Ghost of Feces Past, or worse, discover the visual evidence of someone’s digestive system turning a lazy circle in the toilet bowl.
I often wish there was some easy way of communicating to other drivers from my own car, an LED sign on a window somewhere that displays “THANK YOU” or “SUCK IT”, whichever is most appropriate for the situation at hand, and in a similar vein I’d like a sign in the bathroom that lights up once I leave and the next person comes in. It would read, “LINDA’S BUTT DID NOT DO THIS.”
You know what I mean? I hate the idea that somebody else is going to think it was me that left it smelling like a paper mill. Sure, you can spray the little can of citrus crap around, but that really just makes everything smell like someone spent a few hours in there gruntingly passing a lemon through their colon.
As for Turdzilla in the toilet, I have no explanation for this. We all hate to stand around whistling while we wait for Flush #2, if Flush #1 does not finalize the job in a satisfactory manner, but come ON. Don’t leave it for the next person to deal with. I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to smell it, and I don’t want to be forced to acknowledge its presence as I gingerly reach for the handle. I especially don’t want to be haunted by its girth, and find myself idly wondering just how much fiber a person has to consume in order to produce such a kielbasa-sized cylinder of horror.
Once I moseyed into the women’s room, found a Disturbing Remnant and flushed, only to watch in utter dismay as the water rose, and rose, and rose . . . and stopped just below the rim of the lid, while Things swirled ominously. What’s a person to do in that situation? I was panicked and sweaty and all I could think was, that’s not even my turd. There’s a hysterical David Sedaris essay about his encounter with an unflushable turd in the bathroom at a friend’s party, and I remembered how he dealt with it: by breaking it into pieces with the handle of a plunger.
Which I did not try because oh my god. No. Just, no.
Instead, I exited and told the person in charge of dealing with such toilet issues, making sure to defensively state at least 295719 times that it was like that when I got there, I swear to god, I mean I can prove it because all I had for breakfast was a bowl of cereal and clearly this person had a five-course meal with COFFEE AT THE END.
I’m sure she totally believed me. Riight.
In other non-shit-related news, my petri dish of a child gave me a rotten cold, and the only medicine that actually makes me feel partially human is Sudafed, which is now a CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE and you have to show your ID and wait forty hundred thousand billion hours for the clerk to laboriously enter all your information in the secret government database in order to buy it. Suck.
Also, I’ve been washing my face with honey (rub it in, leave it for a minute, then rinse) at night for the last week and my skin feels super soft and awesome. I know it sounds weird, but you should try it out! Bee vomit is the best.
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