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Adventures in Pottysitting

I've been sitting on a post for several days now. It was going to be about this bathroom that I discovered in our new office building.

Not 'discovered' in a sort of Vasco de Gama sense, of course. I didn't burst in the door, plant a flag made of toilet paper, and declare:

'I claim this washroom in the name of Charlie! Behold, yon urinal cakes, your new master! Anger me not, or I shall feast on flagons of Columbian roast coffee and return to pee you down to nothing! I AM YOUR KING!'

(Which is also not to suggest that de Gama peed on the natives, or prefered Central American coffee. Maybe he did, and maybe he didn't. Only the History Channel knows for sure.)

Rather, I 'discovered' that there's a restroom -- a bright, shiny, clean new restroom -- that's out of the way for most people in the building, but happily on my direct route out of the building. I was going to describe how taking the stairs from my new cubicle -- a half-hearted and hopeless nod to heart-healthiness; ninety seconds of step-climbing offsets beer for breakfast and three-burrito lunches, right? -- takes me right past this oasis of a washroom on my way to the garage.

Sometimes, I stop in as I leave. It's heaven. Plenty of supplies, no visitors, nice and quiet. I could take naps in there, maybe even haul a TV and mini-fridge into the handicrapper in the afternoons. So much potential. And my spider plants are positively thriving. You'd be surprised how a little feng shui will take the edge off plain tile walls and a cold porcelain bowl.

Sadly, I can't write that entry. Much as I'd enjoy waxing poetic over the privacy and comfort of a well-stocked, near-private corporate washroom, I simply can't. And here's why: such an entry suggests -- nay, screams -- for the title that popped into my head when I first considered the subject. And that title, to my dismay, is this:

'My Own Private Poopin' Hole'

I can do a lot of things with a straight face, folks. I can, for instance, happily describe my worst interviwing nightmare. I'm not afraid to tell you how I got pwned by a five-year-old girl. I'm even capable of dropping a few hundred words to describe life, as I see it. Twice, even!

(And clearly, I'm not above a bout of shameless self-promotion. Nobody ever claimed I was classy, toots. Deal.)

But I simply cannot bring myself to write a post and title it: 'My Own Private Poopin' Hole'. I tried. Honestly, I tried and it's just not happening. Is the current title much better? No, not particularly. I can still barely look my monitor in the face. But it's better enough, and that's what matters. I've set the bar pretty fricking low around here, but it's not quite sitting on the ground just yet. 'Poopin' Hole' is off the table.

So I'll tell you another bathroom story, instead.

This one involves the restroom down the hall from my cube. It gets a lot more foot traffic -- and ass traffic, too, I suppose. Sometimes, it's out of toilet paper. And somebody's already working on the urinal cakes -- you can see the pockmarks and divots already starting to form. In other words, it's a pale, poor, piddly comparison to the excretory Eden I earlier described.

(Yeah, I know: 'excretory Eden' -- too much. Sometimes I get all caught up in the alliterary adrenaline and step over the line. I'll try to be good.)

Two other 'features' of this bathroom you should know, more germane to this story -- every bit of plumbing in the room is automated, and the latches on the doors don't always shut completely.

The first piece of info is important to note, because it means that the toilets flush themselves. The mechanisms are new, too, so they're:

A) on a hair trigger, and
2) extremely, extremely, frighteningly forceful
With the stage set thusly, the story unfolds rather quickly. Yesterday, I strolled down to the bathroom to settle in for a nice afternoon tussle. I made my way to a stall, latched the door, dropped pants, and sat. I'd barely grazed butt to bowl, however, when the door -- she of the sticking, nonreliable latch -- released and swung wide and into the stall.

Luckily, there were no witnesses to my ankled-undies dilemma, and I was able to safely lean forward, close the door, secure the latch, and nestle my nethers back on the seat.

Just as the auto-flusher kicked in. The industrial-strength, apparently nuclear-powered, millions o' gallons per minute Firehose-O-Matic brand flusher. With impeccable -- some might even say diabolical timing, the majestic *WHOOSH* of water and air began just as I was lowering fanny onto porcelain.

"My ass was plastered to the bowl with the awesome sucking power of a thousand Hoover uprights."

My ass was plastered to the bowl with the awesome sucking power of a thousand Hoover uprights. I couldn't have stood at that point if I had thighs of steel and a team of oxen pulling me up. Meanwhile, the water -- now in a far more confined space, bounded on one side by my puckered-out posterior -- lapped and sprayed around the bowl, like the dancing waters of a Vegas casino fountain. Only, on my ass.

In ten seconds, it was all over. The suction stopped, the waters receded, and I was left with my pants around my ankles, legs in the air, and my drenched derriere jammed in the toilet. When I was finally able to extricate myself, it looked like I'd received an ass hickey from an overamorous hippopotamus. And given the volume of water involved, I felt like she'd used a little tongue, too.

(Yeah, I know -- too much again. Sorry.

But hey -- I did resist making oral sex jokes back around the 'awesome sucking power...' line. Tha'ts gotta count for something. I'm doin' my best over here.)

So, that's my bathroom story. I cleaned up, did what I had to do, and practically bolted from the stall when I was done, lest I be sucked back into the toiletwater tempest. I've been a bit scared to use the facilities in the building ever since, frankly. And I make damned sure that once my ass is down on the seat now, it's down for the duration. Open doors, fire alarms, alien invasion, I don't give a damn -- you people are gonna have to wait. I'm not going through that again.

You can imagine how I feel now about using the urinals. I haven't been scared of being sucked down the drain since I was six years old. Now, I pee from behind the trash can across the room, just in case. You can't be too careful when it comes to these bathrooms. Safety first, kids.

Permalink | Comments (2)

, ,


If your own private washroom is nearby, and not many people use it... well, then, the nice, safe, sink is just asking to be christened.

They haven't got, you know, automated drains or something, have they?

That's terrible. And awesome. And Terrible with a capital T.

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