Shhhhhhh………………….it!

I won’t lie, I get overwhelmed with a massive sense of smugness whenever I have to poo at work.  I don’t know if it’s because it takes me away from work for a few minutes, or the fact that I’m on the clock when I sit down to pinch one off.

Either way, I’m getting paid to give a shit.

(groan)

So, today I took my smug self into the toilets [restrooms] on our floor, chose an empty cubicle (which was ANY of them…..result!) and dropped my kecks in readiness for the mass exodus.

Just as I relaxed to let my people go, someone walked in.  Now, this isn’t usually an issue for me, but the toilets at work are tiled floor to ceiling and appear to block out any sound beyond the door…so basically it’s a large, reverberating echo chamber.

Great.

To make matters worse, I knew this poo wasn’t a run-of-the mill affair.  No, this one felt like it had an air pocket the size of my head behind it.  That meant that any attempt to free the prisoners was going to result in a shotgun style blast that would startle the most war-torn veteran due to the amplification provided by the resonance chamber we were both inhabiting.  Also, I had eaten Mexican food the night before with plenty of beans, meaning the smell would likely bring literal tears to our eyes.

Well, it would bring tears to HIS eyes; we can all tolerate our own, right?

Right?

Anyway, my new friend entered the cubicle next to mine – naturally – and took a seat of his own.

Sigh….really?

Now we were two strangers, sat two feet apart in total silence with our pants around our ankles.  This was not at all uncomfortable as I sat there, legs quivering in the air, as I desperately held back a cataclysmic shit that would have emergency crews later looking for the epicenter of the blast that leveled the building.

After what felt like 3 hours, my new friend got up, flushed whatever he had pooped out with ninja-like stealth, washed his hands for an hour, and left.

At last!

I finally relaxed……and chipped the inside of the bowl.

Talking crap

I’ve just been for that first satisfying bowel movement of the day.  The one that usurps all others.

It was great.

But, unlike those I enjoy at weekends, this one was at the office.

A downside to curling out a fresh biscuit at work is that you’re not always the only baker in the bakery.  This visit was one of those times.

Now, a story like this isn’t unusual under normal circumstances, but this was far from normal.  As I entered the toilets [restroom/bathroom] I could hear that the occupant of the far cubicle [stall] was talking to someone.  He was on the phone.

I took the first cubicle because, well, no-one likes to poo within a foot of another person.  I don’t care if there’s a layer of wood between me and him; if I can see the shadow of his feet, I’m too close.

The toilets at work don’t have piped in music, nor are they located next to an airport runway so it was deathly quiet in there and therefore I could hear every word he was saying.

“I know”

“Yes, I heard you”

“Well, you hurt my feelings”

“Yes”

“Yes I know”

“OK”

There was a pause.

“I love you”

His call must have ended at that point because he then proceeded to wipe his arse.

Nice.

I finished my performance, flushed and then spent an unnecessarily long time washing and drying my hands.

Why?

Well, it could be because I believe in good personal hygiene, or it could be because I wanted to see if this guy had the bollocks to come out of his cubicle and reveal himself.

He didn’t.

I wouldn’t have either.

So, to respect his privacy and integrity, I left.

Then, out of respect for the guy, I didn’t hang around in the kitchen waiting to see who emerged.  I didn’t think it was right to make myself a coffee really slowly so I could check out if it was someone I knew (who may read my blog and somehow take this invasion of privacy personally).

After a few minutes he emerged.  Thankfully I didn’t know him.

It was just one of our security team; a massive bastard built like a brick shithouse.

This could be my last post.

picard phone loo

Today at the gym…

There was a guy in the gym tonight who, I would say, is in his early sixties with a shaved head and built like a brick shithouse.

He’s clearly been working out for over half his life which was evident from the fact that he was as wide as he was tall, like an equilateral triangle….but sweatier.

Like most of the meatheads in there he was grunting and groaning with every push or pull of the machines he was using, and quite rightly so; he was lifting some heavy shit.

Anyway, as I was leaving I thought I’d wash my hands because, well, I’ve seen some of the people who touch the machines. Most of them are sweaty, and a lot of them are douchbags. I don’t want any of that on me when I leave, especially douchebag.

So I went to the toilets, washed my hands and as I turned around to dry them, in came the equilateral triangle.

He walked[1] to the urinals, barely wedged himself in the ‘normal human being’ sized space and fumbled with the cord of his gym trousers.

At least, that’s the assumption I’m making here. There’s no way I was going in for a closer look just to give validity to this post.

Once he’d (presumably) undone the cord he let out a grunt similar to those he’d demonstrated when lifting the heavy weights before.

Yeah right.  Don’t flatter yourself mate.

I’ve heard the stories about steroids.

image

[1] It was the awkward walk of someone with three huge pillows under each arm and a protein bar inserted rectally.

I’m a stand up guy when I sit down

I’ve written a lot of entries that have been toilet related.  In fact, if you type the word ‘toilet’ in my search bar you will get an almost endless list of posts.

I clearly need to get a lot of things out.

(smirks smugly to himself)

Today’s log (smirk) is no different, and yet it is; it’s about certain observations and forms of etiquette I’ve noticed when using a toilet cubicle [stall].

Firstly there’s the ‘call to attention’.  This is a customary noise you make to alert any new toilet visitor that you’re already there, sat down, mid performance.

This customary noise usually comes in the form of a cough, a clearing of the throat, a loud sniff or the dropping of a big, heavy turd.

Often, when I’m the new arrival to the toilets this ‘call to attention’ comes in the form of general grunting and groaning, like the cubicle occupant is attempting to shit out a small donkey.  Even after I’ve dropped my dignity and taken a seat, the grunting and groaning continues.

Is their turd coming out sideways?

Imagine your grandfather sitting in a big comfy chair after a huge meal; that’s the sound I can best liken it to.

So anyway, regardless of who came in first or last, the next thing I’d like to comment on is the deafening silence that follows when the coughing, grunting and sniffing has subsided.

I mean, you can literally hear a pin drop, let alone anything else.

This is a level of silence that actually hurts your ears.  It’s quieter than being in church, or so I’ve been told; I don’t tend to hear it over the sound of my burning flesh and the screams of a thousand tortured souls.

Or is that just me?

This silence is counterproductive to the task in hand when all you want to do is push out some bum rope, especially as it’s likely you’re in the most echo efficient room in the building.

It’s almost a battle of wills to see who will set free the first fart, or something decidedly more sinister.

This is exacerbated if you have a bad stomach and want to let loose the fizzy beast within.

Personally, I reach around (easy now) and flush the toilet in time with each contraction; evacuating my bowels in perfect time with the masking sounds of the flush.

And while I’m on the subject of masking sounds, it’s a huge frustration of mine when people don’t use the hand dryer KNOWING their fellow man is attempting to curl one out – with sweaty brow and trembling knees – a few feet away.  Instead they opt for a paper towel or trouser wipe.

Give me some cover noise mate, come on.

I’d do it for you.

cover me

Now, I don’t know about you, but I had an epiphany the other day whilst sat on the loo.  I was sitting there, spending a little too long on Facebook and creating those infamous red thigh marks…

red thigh

…when I heard the guy in the neighbouring cubicle stop grunting and groaning and reach for the toilet paper.

In the library-like silence I could heard the rumble of the roll as he pulled at the paper, followed by the soft but definable snap of the paper.

It then occurred to me that the rustling that followed wasn’t him practicing Origami, it was the actual act of wiping his arse.  I could literally hear him smearing poo from his balloon knot.  And what made it worse was that he kept going, returning to the loo roll two or three times for back up.

Now I think about it, the word ‘wipe’ should be replaced with ‘vigorously scrub’.

Now, whenever I hear the rumble of the toilet roll, I know I’m about to hear a guy cleaning out his chocolate tea-towel holder with wads of tissue paper a foot and a half away from me.

I want to hum or sing to drown out the noise, but I feel that would just make the hole[1] situation worse.

Once you’ve had this epiphany and heard that noise, you can’t un-hear it.

You’re welcome.

But all of this pales into comparison to my last observation and experience.

This one has resulted in three words of advice.  Three simple words that will ensure you are not mentally scarred for the rest of your days.

When you’re next sat on the toilet, pay close attention to the floor.

Is it shiny?

Has it been buffed to a mirror-like perfection?

If the answer is yes, and someone joins the cubicle next to you, remember these three little words.

Don’t look down.

my eyes

[1] Not a typo

Come hell or high water

Did you know that American toilets contain more ‘bowl water’ than those in the UK?

No?

Here’s a British toilet.

toilet bowl uk

Here’s an American toilet.

Detroit postcard

Oops! Sorry, HERE’S an American toilet!

toilet us

Now, this might seem like a pointless waste of water, but I think the Americans are onto something here.

Firstly, no splashback.

Genius.

You’d have to drop a turd the size of King Kong’s finger to generate enough downforce to splash your arse [ass] in this country.

Secondly, and most brilliantly, no skidmarks.  Not one.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve seen a single Zebra patterned toilet bowl since I’ve been here.  I don’t even think it’s possible to create them.

Challenge accepted.

Pass me the bran.

A toilet observation, on the fly

Well, it’s been a while since I’ve written anything. As I’ve mentioned in a previous post, this is mainly due to nothing happening in the jobless lead up to emigrating to America.

Have I  mentioned that I’m moving to Las Vegas?

No, I probably haven’t….over and over and over again.

Anyway, last night my wife and I were at a restaurant rubbing our joy in people’s faces when I decided to visit the restroom (yes, I said ‘restroom’; I’m getting into practice because I know Americans will have difficulty with ‘bog’, ‘carsey’, ‘gents’ and probably even ‘lavatory’ and ‘toilet’).

I walked into the bathroom (still practicing) and walked to the urinals.

Ladies, there is an unwritten rule that you never stand next to another man having a piss unless you have no choice; you should always leave a space of at least one urinal between you.

Well, I had no choice on this visit as there were three urinals and the middle one was occupied. There’s nothing more comfortable and lacking in awkwardness than standing shoulder to shoulder with another man holding his penis.

Thankfully as I started taking care of business, he concluded his and began to zip up his fly.

I wasn’t watching him by the way, but I was so close to him I would’ve been able to tell you how much change he had in his pocket.

£2.37.

However, this guy was taking forever to do such a simple task. This was mostly because he’d undone every fucking button on his jeans, including his belt, so he was now painstakingly taking forever to sort himself out.

Come on man, learn how to use your fly. You only need to undo a few buttons to unleash the beast.

To drink juice from a carton, you open up a flap at the top to get at the contents; you don’t open the entire thing at the seams!

What next?

image

Everyone should experience (cl)IMAX

My wife and I went to the cinema yesterday to see ‘Tomorrowland’ in IMAX.  We enjoyed it and it’s well worth a watch.

After the film I had to visit the toilet; the inevitable consequence of drinking a LOT of Coke!

As I was having the longest piss in history, I started to get bored and began looking around.

(I was in there alone….otherwise it would most definitely have been ‘eyes forward’)

As I looked to my left I saw this vending machine:

Shady Vending Machine2

Yes, that’s right; this vending machine – in a cinema – is selling various lubes of different flavours and sensations, Tic-Tacs (important), a form of Viagra (impotent?), condoms and vibrating cock rings.

I’m not a prude, but come on!

This isn’t a pub or a club; it’s a c-i-n-e-m-a.

I guess kissing in the back row has come a long way.

Pun intended.

Occupeed

I finish work at 5.30pm, so at 5.25pm I thought I’d nip to the toilet to empty my increasingly aching bladder before the 2 hour journey home.

2 cubicles. Both in use.

Alright, that’s fine. I’m clearly not the only one who’s had that idea.

I waited for 3 or 4 minutes before deciding the occupants were clearly masturbating or dead and gave up. There are another 2 cubicles near the entrance to the building so I thought I’d use those on my way out.

Both also in use.

I waited outside for about 5 minutes, calling out loudly to my wife sat in reception that “I won’t be long as I’m just waiting for these people to finish using the toilet!”

Despite there being noises from within, including flushes and the washing of hands, they weren’t taking the hint or showing any signs of emerging.

“I think they’ve fallen in darling, they’re taking forever!”

Still nothing. I think I heard one of them re-sit down for another performance.

What were they doing in there?

I decided, with bursting bladder and a wife reminding me that we could miss our train, that we should leave the office.

A full bladder is one thing, but proving my wife right is another!

So we left and joined the throng of London commuters and their inept sense of direction.

I tell you, attempting to navigate heaving crowds and packed underground trains with a hairpin bladder is an adventure. A nervous, sweaty adventure.

We made it to Victoria station and straight onto the train. Unfortunately, because we’d left the office so late, the train was really busy.  Thankfully there were 2 seats available at a table, so my wife and I grabbed them.

I removed my shoulder bag and put it on my seat like a tourist with towel on a sun lounger.

“Watch my bag, I really need to use the toilet!” I said, hopping from one leg to the other.

I walked through to the other carriage and found the cubicle.

In use.

Fuck!

I waited.

I waited longer.

I looked at my wife in the other carriage in disbelief.

I even asked some kids I’d they’ve seen anyone go into this toilet (in case it’s out of order).

“Yeah, a girl went in there, innit”

Eventually, after 10 minutes I gave up and joined my wife.

We’re still sat on the train and the toilet is still occupied.  We’ve been on this train for 45 minutes.

I’m about to test the absorbency of these seats.

image

‘Faeces’tious and ‘Poo’dantic

At work, someone has put up these notices in all the toilets in the entire building.

bog sign

Note the use of an ‘@’ symbol instead of the word ‘At’, as if to save space or something. I hate that, especially when the word ‘At’ was actually used a bit further down.

And what if I leave my toilet in an awful state at home?  Does that give me permission to do the same at work?

Ultimately, I want to do the right thing, so I’m going to take heed of the advice offered and (being the literal and pedantic bastard I am) do exactly what it says.

I’m going to enjoy flushing the toilet non stop and shitting in the bin.

Shit down and shut up

My wife and I were in a mall in Vegas shortly after breakfast and, as we meandered around the shops I didn’t recognise, I suddenly felt the playdough effect kicking in.

Basically, a turd was imminent.

So I hobbled to the ‘Restroom’ to do anything but rest. I walked in and there were two empty cubicles (or ‘stalls’) along with three urinals, all of which were occupied.

No problem, this was going to be a sit down performance anyway.

I went into the first cubicle, locked the door (although it made no difference to my privacy with the gaps around the door) and dropped my shorts for the big performance.

I just had to make sure I didn’t make too much noise as it was very quiet in there.

I started clenching and relaxing at the same time.

Got to be quiet.

Got to be quiet.

There was a pause and all that could be heard were three streams of piss on porcelain.

Got. To. Be. Quiet.

Ha, no chance. My arse decided to sound like the final squeeze of a ketchup bottle.

I waited 5 minutes after I was finished before leaving the cubicle.

image

Killing him softly….

My dodgy stomach has been no fun on this trip. When I finally made it through all the security checks at Orlando International airport, I made a dash to the mens room for the inevitable.

Having negotiated all the same wet toilet seat issues from my blog on the 11th of December, I sat down to my Jamaican attraction; Dung River Falls.

I flushed, stood up, wiped my brow, caught my breath and my balance, unlocked the stall with the massive gaps (11th Dec blog) and opened the door.

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

There was a guy waiting for an empty stall, and I’d just vacated one.

I looked at him with a sense of sadness and guilt. I wanted to hug him and, whilst holding back tears, wish him good luck.

His family are going to miss him.

Bathroom Rage!

On our drive from Miami to Orlando we decided to stop off at a service station to stretch our legs, although we all knew that the real reason was the driver’s need for nicotine and caffeine. He was threatening to get a little punchy, and no-one wanted that from the man with his feet on the pedals.

We parked up, got out, stretched our legs and proceeded into the air conditioned building filled with far too many kids bereft of guardians.

As our driver made a beeline for Dunkin’ Donuts, I decided to visit the toilet as I’d had a dull ache in my stomach since breakfast that indicated the approach of my own Dunkin’ Donut.

I looked for the restrooms, or washrooms, or bathrooms, despite there not being a bathtub in sight nor anywhere to sit and rest.

Well, that’s not entirely true, so I found an empty stall. I cautiously peered inside and found nothing that resembled an explosion at the Cadbury factory, so I confidently stepped inside and locked the door behind me; not that it mattered considering I could still be seen by anyone walking past. More on this shortly.

I lowered the toilet seat and, yes you guessed it, it was covered in delightful drops of yellow. Why do people use the stalls to have a piss when there are loads of urinals? It’s selfish to those needing to cut off some bum rope as it’s not like we can cop a squat in a urinal is it? If you absolutely HAVE to use the stall at least lift the seat, or get a better aim, or a longer penis.

It was at this point I let out a very audible sigh which would usually cause others, who were possibly resting or bathing, to wonder what I was doing in there.

Not in America.

No, in America the toilet cubicles have a gap between the stall and the door, ranging from half an inch to something you could easily push a cat through. This means the world can see you trembling one out with your dignity around your ankles.

I decided to make the best of a bad situation and grabbed a handful of toilet paper and wiped the seat as dry as possible. Then, with military precision, I started to cover the offending plastic horseshoe with enough streams of toilet paper to make a mummy think “steady on”. This went on for at least 2 to 3 minutes until I was satisfied I wouldn’t come in contact with any part of the seat.

I sat down, facing the ill conceived grand canyon gap and looked out for any peeping toms or cats. Once I was satisfied that no-one gave a shit, I decided that maybe it was time I did. My stomach was still feeling uncomfortable and there was no telling when the next pit stop would be.

The time had come for my big performance.

Here we go.

-fart-

Dammit.

False alarm.

Oh well, I’ll have a piss instead…but I don’t want to touch the underside of this seat so I’ll just leave it down.

Oops.