Tuesday, October 10, 2006

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.

27 comments:

  1. HA HA HA you are now an honorary brit , arise Dame First Nations , we love a good bodily functions yarn.
    I have a family horror to share , ladies and gentlemen I present
    'Grannies Christmas Suprise'
    My poor little old senile granny used to come and stay with us at xmas , she was everything a little cockney granny should be , completely bats , white hair , as wrinkled as a walnut , no teeth and a wicked sense of fun.
    Living on her own as she did I dont think she ate very much , but used to make up for it spectacularly when she came to stay....well Xmas eve , and an extremely bloated Granny wandered off to bed.
    Next morning I got up to find every window in the house wide open , two very green parents lurking quaesily in the kitchen , and a dreadful stench pervading the whole house.
    On enquiring as to the above situation(as my teeth chattered) a sorry tale of a nasty gastric incident in the depths of the night , my dad later said that he couldnt understand short of granny spinning around in the middle of the bathroom , spouting geyser like from both ends , how it all ended up covering all the walls up to about 6 ft.
    My poor little parents had been up all night cleaning up the mess.
    Not a christmas goes by without the story of Grannies Christmas suprise , reducing the whole family to hysterical sobbing wrecks......
    Now thats what I call a traditional familly christmas

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  2. Anonymous9:28 AM

    i am so glad i am a child of the 90's, well 80's and 90's.

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  3. Anonymous9:41 AM

    Do you read alot of Wordsworth?

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  4. FN, you really have a grasp of this subject, like no one else. However, I don't agree with you that stall-spraying is due to these older ladies not sitting down. They may very well sit on the toilet seat but years of childbearing and bending over to pick up dirty socks has distended sphincter muscles so that there is no control of the erm, projectiles. N'est ce pas?

    Vicus, I'm horrified that you use the term "alot" like it exists. Did you mean "a lot?"

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  5. Ew. (although Beast's tale out-ews it)

    I have bad bowels, when I have to go I have to go immeditely.

    This results in situation like where I was crapping in a very, very grotty toilet with someone being very enthusiasticly fellated in the next cubicle.

    The noises were something else. My guts tried to drown them out but to no avail.

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  6. BEAST: yew are creckin' us up, sir!
    i have a version of that story too! it's called 'Second cousin Leota experiments with a new medium of expression'. no lie.
    PINK: but look at what you missed!
    VICUS: only the dirty parts.
    CARMENTZA: that theory doesn't hold water.
    god i am so sorry.
    BILLY: Ew ew. Ew ew ew. Ew ew ew ew ew, ewew ew; ew ew. Ew? Ew.

    EVERYONE: Wow, this is just like that one scene in the movie Trainspotting!
    ..oh you know, where the guy goes into the bathroom in the pub? and its really gross? and he has a suppository in? and, yeah.

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  7. FN go on tell us the second couz story....go on ...go on ....go on

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  8. yup. been in those bathrooms next to those ladies--listened in horror at the various grunts, groans, and galoshishness that landed in the pot. ewwww indeed.

    as for girdles? oy. girlfriend, i was in high school before pantyhose became affordable, so my first experiences with nylons came with those funky little-girl garters. (same dealio with sanitary napkins, i might add... are you old enough to remember how fun those pre-panty liner days were?)

    while reading your post i somehow conjured that scene from Dumb 'n Dumber (with Jeff Daniels?). that's some funny shit, girlfriend! xoxo

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  9. Yes, memories of sanitary belts came flooding (sorry) back.
    The way the metal suspender would dig in the top of one's cleft, for example.

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  10. I love the 50's girl. She has an arse like a brood mare.

    There is an old Volcun proverb, "Only Nixon could go to China."

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  11. Horrified10:19 PM

    I think I could have lived a long happy life without ever knowing that nice little old ladies are actually the equivalent of a septic tank with an air compressor attached.

    Should I be careful with open flames near old ladies? Can they explode? Because that would be really cool.

    Very very gross, but really cool.

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  12. In a perfect world, there wouldn't be anything amusing about old ladies' bottoms, but it's not, and there is.

    God, FN, I hope you're not as funny in real life, because real life wouldn't be able to cope.

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  13. Anonymous5:26 AM

    Oh FN this did make me laugh.

    I have just finished a short term contract working for a rather well known UK department store chain favoured by the elderly.

    Part of this required working in the fitting rooms.

    In the three months that I was there, I was exposed to several old lady bottoms, and sagging old lady boobs as I helped them try on their clothes.

    The fitting rooms were pissed in 3 times. (They used the fabric covered stools in the cubicles as loo seats).

    Shat in twice. Once kind of like a dog (a little poo curled up in a corner) and once a case of the shits- it was everywhere!

    People seemed to think that fitting room cubicles were toilet cubicles.

    Then one particularly busy Saturday a very drunk old man came in, shat himself and proceeded to
    walk around the store trailing poo everywhere, even onto the escalator. Don't even ask me how they managed to clean that one up!

    I still have nightmares.

    And people ask me why I don't want a career in retail?

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  14. beast: oh, I will.
    neva: i remember them WELL. mom insisted they were the only 'ladylike' alternative. in my mind, the concepts 'ladylike' and the sound 'squish' are not compatable, however, so i...yeah.
    ara: yes! a primitive version of the thong, except not.
    champ: and a well-ventilated one at that. nixon would have been proud.
    horrified: i like the way you think and i think you need to get a blog
    immediately. do so now! and, yes.
    tim: *blushing*
    heather: yes! yes, yes! how well i remember my mother telling me
    'NOPE!' just as I was lowering myself onto the cushion of the chair in the dressing room. "Smell it first", she added. Good advice, mom! and this in an upmarket place, too!

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  15. I always thought the Toilets In Dawlish Incident was really gross, but it pales in comparison to what I've read here.

    We were on holiday in Devon, and spent a few hours in Dawlish. I was desperate for the toilet, but the public toilets at the car park only had one cubicle, and it was occupied by a woman with really thick, enormous ankles, with a very stout walking stick poking out under the door. She was in there for bloody ages, and I gave up waiting, going off to find facilities elsewhere.

    Anyway, a few hours later we got back to the car park and I decided to go back to the ladies convniences as there was a bit of a drive back to our apartment. The cubicle was vacant now. Plus, there was a horrible smell of death emanating from it. Plus, flies hovering about. Plus, the results of an evacuation of diarrhoea of Mount Etna proportions peppered everywhere.

    I hope somebody shoots me when I reach my seventieth birthday.

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  16. It started with the shoelaces crying in pain and crawling away under their own power. It escalated with revisting the concept of FIREHOSING. By the time i got to "elderly synchronized hover peeing" i was laughing so hard i was in pain. It's not the story that's funny (hell, there isn't really a story, just a subject theme), it's how you tell it. You have the most original turn of phrase i have ever read. look hon, i'm no expert, but i'm no idiot either, and i'm dead serious when i tell you you can make money doing this. stop giving your milk for free! make people buy the cow!

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  17. I'm with CB on this one. Although I don;t know why she thinks you should become a farmer. Stunninly hilarious writing.

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  18. I'm with CB on this too. Great stuff. Having worked in a pub for over two years, frequented by ramblers clubs who would walk off the tow-path, take up all our tables, buy halves of lemonade and eat their own sandwiches and take offence when I told them they couldn't, then turn the khazis into pre-Bazalgette London, I'm aware that old folks shit for Satan. But the intimacies of the ladies lavs were a closed book - only the left overs were known. Thank you

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  19. I am laughing my ass off... being one to have shit issues, I know every kinda shit out there and am not the kind to hold back on my descriptions though most would faint or vomit on me...

    Oh the beauty of shit... take it from a chronically-constipated-living-on-damn-laxatives-Loverboy-is-making-me-quit-and-I-so-don't-want-to-because-the-act-of-crapping-is-an-actual-physical-addiction-intricately-connected-to-the-parasympathetic-nervous-system-and-logically-so bohemian... although not other people's and I do agree with you on the whole pissing on the toilet seat and why it happens theory...

    The worst of them all? Port-a-potties...

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  20. I'm laughing toooooo hard to write a coherent .....where was I?...

    Oh man...

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  21. Lollicopter. You wanna go to Normandy, France, where the ladies were holes in the ground that you kind of... Squat. Over.
    And the toilets at Glastonbury. The mens were a long trough separated with curtains. My dad will recount about the wag in the next partition shouting 'Don't let the streams cross Igor!'
    Heh heh heh.

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  22. horrified9:15 PM

    No. Absolutely not. Blogs are for those with time, dedication and some level of cohesive thought. Being in posession of none of these things, I shall continue to lurk.

    But I shall never, EVER, light a match near grandman again.

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  23. I was just saying to The Husband: I used to look forward to a nice episode of 'Miss Marple' on PBS...

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  24. Do I get fighting points for leaving a comment?

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  25. Oh Lord everywhere I go Frobisher is gloating

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  26. By the way, I sent this to the Pirate, wherever he is in Climes Exotique, and he loved it. Just thought I'd mention.

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  27. THAT is hysterical. The farting/sobbing woman in the clubs is just priceless.

    At my Workplace, we have 2 opposite ends of the income spectrum with a shitload of sales people and the much lower paid assembly line types. I always find it amazing how much more disgusting the 'sophisticated' beautiful people are in the ladies room. Those are your pigs. Fucking sales people.

    Also- why is it that I cannot (will not) use a public restroom to poo, and yet the old people can do it with gusto?
    The noises, man, the noises...

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