Toilet Tales

Dont piss

I have been avoiding this topic due to the edgy subject matter. If you are a regular reader of my work, you are aware of the extremity of my boundaries. Even so, this is a very private subject for most people. It seems strange as pretty much everyone experiences the toilet several times per day. As a matter of fact, the only people I can think of who have an extreme sense of freedom regarding the toilet are the nearly ten percent of the U. S. population who have been incarcerated for a week or more.

What really amazes me is that the privacy issue with regard to the evacuation of waste extends well beyond the stall door. I know many people that automatically break eye contact and turn their head away when their dog stops to take a dump. When using the restroom with Carlos, a former co-worker, he would always use the stall to pee, instead of a neighboring urinal. I assumed that he had some level of Peeing in stallpublic performance anxiety. I tested my theory by calling out, “You okay in there Carlos? Can’t you go with anyone watching?” It turned out that indeed he could not. It probably doesn’t help when I constantly bring it up.

We even use dozens of euphemisms to soften the blow, so to speak. We use the crude; piss, dump, crap, shit, the descriptive; leak, squirt, log, deuce, brick, the colloquial; pish, pee pee, kaka, dookie, poop, doody, the clinical; urine, stool, defecation, fecal matter, and the prim, tinkle, number one, bowel movement, number two. Feel free to send me the terms that your family used. I grew up in a pish and doody home. I asked my wife about her childhood, but after 35 years of marriage, she still won’t tell me.

This also seems odd because of the health aspects of waste evacuation. Check WebMD and you will see that urinary and colon dysfunction is a symptom of nearly every internal ailment. When I was a kid, if I complained about any physical discomfort, including a hangnail, my grandmother’s first question would always be, without fail, “When did you last move your bowels?” It was the miracle cure since I knew that the next question would be, “Has anyone seen the rectal thermometer?” The kids with perfect attendance aren’t the healthiest. They just have the most anally fixated parents.

I’ve broken down the rest of this treatise in sections so that you readers can skip any parts that you find potentially offensive or distressing. Actually, you may want to print it and leave it next to the toilet. This way, if you really hate it, you can wipe your ass with it and at least figuratively give me the lowest of reviews.


Most bathrooms look pretty much the same, but I’ve seen a few that stood out. Once Steel Urinalat a public park to watch my son play baseball, I went to relieve myself and found the coolest urinals. They were similar in shape as the porcelain models, but these were completely made out of riveted sheet metal with sharp corners and angles. I immediately thought that they would be what I’d expect to find on a Klingon warship.

I have visited a small number of ladies rooms albeit always by accident. Usually it’s in a theme restaurant with some cutesy Signname replacing Men and Women. I recall a seafood place that had Buoys and Gulls. I was halfway through the crowded Gulls room before I got the bit.

My friend Tyrone is a professional driver and often works in Manhattan. Unfortunately, he also has frequent gastric issues. As a result, he has a near encyclopedic knowledge of all of the usable bathrooms in the Best Bathroomcity. He can let you know which are closest to temporary parking, which ones have attendants (Tyrone is a generous men’s room attendant tipper), and even the décor. His favorite is a hotel with floor-to-ceiling privacy doors.

Urinal decals can be a nice enhancement. I’ve seen some sponsored by a local exterminator (aptly named Nozzle Nolen). The urinals have decals in the center of a target with an invasive pest in the middle with Yankees Urinalsuggestions to improve your aim. Another favorite was a trip to a bathroom in a sports stadium. Each urinal had a decal depicting one of their rival teams. Classy.

The worst design in any bathroom is one where a mirror is placed directly opposite the toilet. If anyone questions why bathroom activities are meant to be private, this view of yourself is certain to make all answers clear.

Fellow Users

I’m not sure why, but the public bathrooms in New Jersey and New York tended to be total biohazards compared to other places I’ve lived and visited. I’d hate to think that there are proportionally more savages in the Northeast, but I have seen some nasty, well…shit. People piss on the seat, the floor, the roll of toilet paper, even the top of the urinal. On my worst day, I couldn’t even imagine doing such a thing.

Tyrone’s pet peeve is people not washing their hands. He’s chased people down the hall to call them out and to shame them. I love the handwashing instructions. At my previous school, there were several steps listed including repetition and decisions. I actually brought it to class to teach flowcharting and hygiene together.

Once I was in a stall and in the stall next to me, a guy was having a loud conversation on his phone. It was bizarre and annoying. I cried out in fake pain as though I was passing a kidney stone. When the dope failed to get the message, I got louder and began cursing the Gods for causing my deep constipation. Eventually, he got the message and shut up.

My pet peeve is waiting in a fast food joint to use a single restroom and when the previous user steps out…well, picture this: A rather large fellow exits the room. He is generally north of 350 pounds, and is obviously at lunch after a sweaty morning of farming, roofing, sumo wrestling, or whatever. He usually will have a long beard and several tattoos as well as some sort of biker regalia squirting out between his jeans and his overhanging gut. Anything less than four burritos would be a light nosh for this gentleman. I make no judgement other than the fact that he leaves the bathroom walking as though he just delivered a small calf. You know…I think I can wait.


Is there a place that always gets your bowels moving? I have no idea why, but for me it is the Public Library. It is a rare visit where I am not running to the can within minutes of looking in the stacks. Weird, right?

I went into a bathroom to pee once and there were two urinals. One has a hole cracked in the porcelain, so I decided to use the undamaged one. Shortly afterward, while I was doing my business, I guy wearing a suit bellies up to the other one. After I finish, I pull on the flusher and a torrent of pee water blasts out of the other guy’s urinal and soaks his suit and pants. I’m pretty sure I darted out without washing my hands and a quick, “Sorry, Dude.”

One visit to a stall in a Publix supermarket involved an odd sight. The sink was inside of the stall and when I threw out my paper towel, I noticed that there were a couple of dozen scratch-off lottery tickets on top of the trash. All of the scratch-off material was there as well so it was obvious that someone bought them, and immediately went into the stall to test their luck. I hope they at least had a smooth poop.

Bathroom Fun

Now that everything is electronically controlled, the public bathroom is a constant source of amusement and embarrassment. The toilets, urinals, sinks, soap dispensers, and paper towel dispensers all have the potential to be automated. How many times have you held your hand out waiting for something to happen before realizing that you actually had to operate the one device manually? I’ve also had toilets or paper towels come to life by just moving too close to the sensor.

My favorite bathroom activity is when someone stands next to me at a urinal just as I get there. I will turn to the gentleman and quickly say, “On your mark, get set, go!” You might think this would result in an ass-whupping, but two things are guaranteed. The person will not be able to pee, and they will never respond or acknowledge the challenge. I zip up, lift up my arms, say “WIN”, and head to the sink. Never fails.

Who’s the D-bag Now?


My wife and I recently moved from South Florida to Raleigh, North Carolina to unload the giant house in which we raised out three children and to be closer to our oldest who hopefully will crank out a grandchild one of these days. Originally we lived in New Jersey and like most people living in the New York span of influence, had developed a thick skin and a slightly prickly way of dealing with all of the rest of the jerks among us.

My grandmother was born in New York and moved with her family to Newark, New Jersey as an adolescent to “get out of the rough urban stink of the inner city.” It was probably like our move to Coral Springs, Florida in Broward County. We were west of Ft. Lauderdale, south of Palm Beach and North of Miami. This tri-county area is pretty much the sixth borough of New York. It was pleasant at first, with less horn blowing, but eventually became nearly as obnoxious as North Jersey.

I was checking out my new area in Raleigh. I had just left my water aerobics class at the YMCA. I had originally joined the “Y” to play basketball, but quickly found that while my spirit was 25 years old, my knees were 59. Pleasantly, I found that water aerobics was populated by nearly exclusively women who read. I brought my books and sold half a dozen. I left the gym and headed to the Library to find out about getting my books in there as well.

While pulling into my parking spot, I noticed the car in the next space had a vanity license plate that said UNC-PHD. Instantly, my snarly New Jersey sensibilities kicked in and I decided to take a picture of the plate and send it to some select friends with an appropriate caption. Well, maybe not so appropriate. I knew that this particular group of friends (including my children) would all agree that anyone getting this sort of license plate was obviously a narcissistic blowhard, who we had every right to make the object of our derision.

These friends included Tyrone and Joe. I spoke to Tyrone a day earlier and he told me about a good deed that he had done. When I complimented him on his actions, he told me that he was doing a good deed in case he needed to come down and slap some sense into a couple who had rejected our offer on the house they were selling. I explained that he may be using the principles of karma incorrectly.

I’ll admit that this was not my best bit, but to the right audience, a picture of this license plate accompanied by my caption of DCHE-BAG was guaranteed to get at least a chuckle. As a matter of fact, when relating this story to each of them, they all laughed. Here’s the problem. As I lifted my phone to take the photo of the plate, a woman walked up to me and asked why I was taking a picture of her car. Being the quick thinker that I am, I immediately came up with a credible lie. I told her that my son-in-law was finishing his PhD at the University of North Carolina and I thought he’d like to see the plate.

Technically this was not really a lie as he actually is in his last year of his PhD studies, but I’m not so low as to cheat at karma like say, Tyrone. The crazy thing is that the woman began talking to me and may have been the nicest and sweetest person on the planet. I even ended up giving her a copy of one of my bookmarks when she told me how much she enjoyed blogs.  After she departed, I was left standing in the parking lot, holding my phone with the picture of her plate wondering, “Who is the DCHE-BAG now?”

As I walked into the library, I thought about this at a deeper level. I wondered if the people here were so nice, that they wouldn’t even get the joke about condescending and demeaning someone’s vanity plate choice. The might even be so nice as to not be narcissistic at all. Could this be possible?

After the library, I called Joe, who also happens to be a Buddhist.  He did laugh at the bit, but also gave me a primer in karma to pass on to Tyrone. What was really crazy was that a half hour later, while going into a bookstore, I saw the license plate KARMAH, as though I needed a reminder to consider my evil New Jersey ways.


The testing continues as later that day, I walked into a thrift store and saw a record album prominently displayed on the top of a pile of LPs. It was by The George Mitchell Minstrels, and was actually by a barbershop style group of Caucasian singers who perform in, yes, you guessed it…blackface! The album cover depicted a cartoon drawing of a fellow with a cane, striped jacket and panama hat in actual blackface.


Granted, the album was old and the group from England, but still! I’d like to think that a responsible store owner would forgo the dollar, even for charity, to avoid offending the hyper-sensitive population of today. This seemed no less offensive than finding Josef Goebbels Greatest Hits on the shelf.

In any case, I’m obviously going to have to approach my new home and neighbors with a bit more caution than I might in New Jersey or South Florida. I’m clearly not in Kansas anymore, although, that might be less of an adjustment for a DCHE-BAG like me.