The Sins Of The Young.
Yes, it's poo overkill here at rancho FirstNations!!
(What? I've been bronchial whoopin dog sick for a solid week. Why should your life be any better?)
I attended college with a tiny little woman who had a bladder that defied natural law. It was like the Tardis. For some strange reason our whiz scedules were coordinated, and the urge would hit us during the middle of typing class. I'd get settled in to the stall and be happily mid-performance when she'd come in, say 'Hi!" sit down and cut loose like a cow pissing on a flat rock for about FIVE MINUTES.
This lady was about half the size of me! I'd be done, washing my hands and she'd STILL be peeing! Like a garden hose!!
And she wanted to CHAT!
Now, I can be sociable, right; but I just, no. I'd head back into class. I couldn't keep track of the conversation with all those gallons of water going over the falls, and going, and going, and going.
See, and knowing me as I do I always figured I'd eventually bust out with something like " Holy FUCK, Elise, do you need an operation?"
One of my cousins had the misfortune to be found in bed with the sixteen-year-old daughter of the man his father worked for. Three years and two kids later she still had no goddamn class.
So here I am at a family gathering, in the bathroom, door closed, water on, toilet flushing, snorting coke off the countertop. I've just stood up and I'm tapping the last few crystals back into my sinuses when in busts Kathy!
"Oh my God! Hey you! What if I'd still been busy?" I say, you know, trying to be all cool. Snorting coke? Me? No, heavens no.
Now, with a snootfull of coke I'm inclined to be cheerful anyway; and I'm trying to maintain a jocular tone because hell, she's my cousins' wife and everyone makes mistakes, right?
See, here, I'm assuming SHE might have been embarrassed. You know, because she just barged right in on me without even knocking? Keep up.
While I'm busy being worried about her sense of modesty she drops her pants and plops her big old bare ass on the throne.
"Oh, I listened! You was done!" she replied, and cuts a big old blatty fart. FRAPPBapBLABAAAAAAAAAAP.
Now for half a beat I just stood there frozen.
She listened at the door?
She listened at the door.
Oh my god I can't breathe.
Then I remembered my manners and turned away.
Oh no! Huge wall to wall mirror! HUGE! No escape! Danger Will Robinson! There she is again! Straining! Smiling! Well lit!
"Good Lord, Kathy!" I exclaim.
"Oh, I don't mind!" she replies. GASPLOOOSH. PLOP. BLOPBLOP. plish.
Well. Obviously not.
"I do!" I said, and left.
"Hey!" she called after me, "Try an' shut the damn door all the way!"
Think of this next part as a manifesto.
Based on my experience as a maid, I finally came to accept that men sometimes have trouble hitting what they aim at. I pursued this career for ten years in every kind of establishment you can imagine, and rich or poor, it's just a fact.
When women have that same trouble, thats just wrong.
Particularly when it's not whiz.
I was a maid. I know these things.
As you should already have learned, ladies, in Western society, we sit to go. And after the age of two you should have learned to STAY SEATED UNTIL YOU ARE DONE BEFORE YOU GO.
You do not walk halfway across the room, leaving little mountain ranges and footprints and places where you slipped.
Do not attempt to hover when you are drunk. It will not work. No really. You thought it worked all these years, yes, well, it didn't. Really.
Hovering should also be avoided if what you have come to accomplish is going to be 1. a semisolid, 2. liable to be more semi than solid, and 3. accompanied by lots of gas. The effect it creates is similar to what would happen if someone got really pissed off and blew a hole through the Potty Monster with a sawed off shotgun.
And do not think you are hiding anything by separating the toilet paper into dainty squares and dabbing them onto each splat so they stick there. This fools no one.
You should know better than to stand facing the bowl anyway. When you have diarrhea, this bit of common sense should be at the very forefront of your mind. No, no, no. Nobody appreciates the Jackson Pollock you created on the inside of the stall door. Not even the loopy parts where you were obviously trying for effect. No.
And as long as I'm on the subject of art, I notice you obviously spent a lot of money on those sculpted nails. Even though the squared ends resemble caligraphy points? Yeah. No. Even though the six bags of Oreos you ate earlier have returned to challenge your imagination. The ladies' room is no place for imagination.
Do you have a new lipstick? Is it shiny and pink? Did you think it would be fun to make kissies on the walls of the cubicle wearing this shiny pink lipstick? Yay!
Do you still have lipstick left? Is the counter long and clean? Did you think it would be fun to make kissies on it wearing your pink shiny lipstick? On your twat?
Please go die.
The big white porcelain thing on the floor there with the seat and the flushy handle is the toilet. The little metal box hanging on the wall next to the toilet? That was not put there to provide you with a choice of venue.
Yes, the sink is porcelain many times but the lack of a seat should be a big clue. So please do not leave the sink full of thick orange piss, shit on the floor next to the toilet and leave a wad of paper on the rim. Never, never do this. It's just perplexing.
Once you have used it, the toilet paper goes in the water. In the toilet. Use it on your ass and then get rid of it. In the toilet.
It is not a toy.
Do not sculpt the used paper into whimsical shapes and perch them on the plumbing.
Do not use it on your hine and then stick it to the wall.
Or the ceiling.
Or the hot light fixture.
Do not use it as a medium applicator. Resist that urge to create. No. No hearts. Not even a happyface. It is not a happy face. There is nothing happy about it.
So yeah. Guys? No. Sorry. Comparatively speaking, you have very little to complain about. And I haven't even covered menstruation. Did you notice that? How I completely avoided the entire subject of menstruation?