NSFW. trust me on this.

You can go to numerous places...say, any tavern, for example- and hear terrifying accounts from men forced to take a dump outside their castle walls. Once I stop laughing I can commiserate, because after all, everyone has to vote for Nixon, right? And eventually you have to do so in a public restroom where you run the chance of having an audience of people who are not close family. Depending on which part of the South you live in.
But see, guys know nothing about this, not really. Oh, they whine and bitch about being seranaded whether they want to be or not, but has anyone really addressed the horror that is THE WOMENS' SIDE OF A PUBLIC RESTROOM? No.
Because it's too horrible.

Of course, that is why I am here.

This, then, is what WE have to contend with.


Nice enough looking woman, right?
No.
You see, from the navel down she's nothing but holding tank. I can say that with complete confidence because a number of years ago it was standard operating procedure for women to have all their lower organs removed once they'd hit menopause. They'd just pack whatever was left into a plastic bag and tie it to a rib. Meanwhile Zelda is still putting away the sauerkraut and cabbage rolls, only now it has all this ROOM in which to accumulate...and compost...and it's all expected to exit out one hole...a hole upon which gravity, not enough dietary bulk and childbirth have taken a certain toll.

So lets say you're an average female-type gal sitting in a stall taking a leak, maybe humming a little tune, when the swollen ankles and black K-Mart tennies of this woman appear beneath the wall next to you.
They always sigh.
Then there's a Rgnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn. Which is more of a concentrated lack of breathing than it is an actual sound, although sadly this is not always the case.
Then they bear down and WALOOPAGAZOWPAKASPLOOSHKADOOSH WABOBP FRAPPO KADOOSH out gallops every meal they've eaten for the past week.
Then the pyroclastic wave hits. Your shoelaces start crying and crawl away and hide.
The hair on your ankles begins to singe.
Now some women are content to simply expel this burden in one long, LOUD, chunky rush, kind of like when the city flushes the hydrants in the summer.
Other women, midway through this process, become so intent that they evidently lose all sense of their surroundings and begin to emit long, sustained birthing groans.

UUUUUUUUUUUhhhhhhhhhhoooooooooooooooooooooh.

~SplooshFlabbabbabbablatchow~

HNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNnnn

~Gaslooshasooshagadonk,foosh gadooshgoooooooooosh~

Little ladies can suprise you with their capacity. And they're yippers rather than groaners. But it's the bigs ones who perform the awe inspiring crimes against nature.
They are also the ones most frequently guilty of firehosing the entire back wall of the cubicle.
Let's revisit that concept for emphasis, shall we? FIREHOSING.
Over the years they've lost track of where exactly their rear exit is anymore so they just work their pants down over the rolls, bend over and hope some hits the water.

Ever gone into the ladies room in a club and heard the drunk woman in the next cube crying and farting at the same time?
'BwaAAAAA,uh waugh,uh hwaugh, uh hwauuuuuuuuugh!" ~fuurrrAAAAAAAAAAP! pt pt'
'Hic, Uwuaaaaa,huh hwaaaa,WwAAAA haaaaaaa!"
~FFFFFFFFFFFfft pt pt pt`

It's tragic.

That only hits me later, because at the time I'm leaning against my side of the divider with tears running down my face, cracking up so hard I can't catch my breath.

At Charlies' on Capitol Hill all this was playing out one drunken evening when my glasses fell off and clattered under into the adjoining stall. She handed them back to me.
"H H H Here, are thehehese yours?"
I thanked her. "Listen, are you ok?"
"Y Yeah, I'm fiiiiii huhiiiiii hi hi hine" ~FFRAP! pt pt pt~

Ok then.

Many older women have a deep aversion to placing their bottoms onto a seat which has recently supported the bare buns of a stranger. And that's understandable. Use one of those hippie t-shirt things in the wall dispenser. Or craft your own ass gasket out of toilet paper, Martha Stewart style.
But no. That will not do.
No, these women would rather STAND UP AND PISS ALL OVER THEIR OWN FEET.
And their pantslegs. And their shoes.
Because peeing all over yourself is ALWAYS WAY BETTER than sitting on a bare toilet seat. EW GROSS A BARE TOILET SEAT EWWWWW.
You glance over and see a pair of trembly blue veined old ankles with some big old underpants streeeeeetching out between them as Mrs. Galumpke tries to straddle the bowl and you know it's gonna rain. And it does. All you can do is hope the floor slopes away from your position. You think I am exagerrating. HA.
The rest stop on I-5 at Smokey Point seems to be where all their potty alarms start ringing at the same time. I've been sitting in there when an entire flock of old ladies has gathered to stage a group performance of ELDERLY SYNCHRONIZED HOVER PEEING.
Invariably, these are the woman who pee in splurts.
Or who make motorboat noises.
Imagine Angelina Jolie with a mouthfull of Mountain Dew making motorboat noises.
That's what I mean.
And then you hear them flush and come out of the stalls, chattering away, and off they go, feeling that sense of accomplishment that comes of having successfully avoided sitting on a DISGUSTING BARE TOILET SEAT EW, soaked with piss from the knees down.

Some of you may be too young to remember these.



No. Not butts; girdles.
Now, in the '60's, back when coelecanths ruled the earth and I was a kid, all the older ladies wore them. You were supposed to wear them over your big old underpants but nobody did because with nothing to grip they'd slip and shift suddenly and flub would come shooting out in odd places. And back then girdles were still made with rubber...either rubberized sateen, or just...plain rubber.
This is a recipe for evil.
1. Rubber girdles......had an......aroma. Already. Right out of the box. A very rubbery aroma.
2. Rubber girdles were not machine washable.
Hand wash only. In the bathroom sink. Strange. Tan. Floaty. Ew.
3. Rubber girdles DID NOT BREATHE LIKE EGYPTIAN COTTON. (Except for this one, which looks it could have been played like an ocarina.)
No, very little air passed in and out of a rubber girdle.
....Except when it did so under pressure, in a series of sharp little reports, out the waistband or the legholes. SNAP! SNABABABAP!
And remember - this air had exited first through an aperature better left unimagined and then spent an unknown amount of time racing desparately around and around the hot, sweaty, compressed flub of a fat womans' ass like a hamster in a habitrail.
As Redd Foxx points out, this woman may have been riding in a taxi cab. This woman may have run to catch a bus. She may have had liver and onions for lunch.
Usually she was standing next to me on the elevator in Meyer and Franks. Giving ME dirty looks.