Not Ranked
My mother was a fanatic about public toilets. As a little girl, she'd
bring me in the stall, teach me to wad up toilet paper and wipe the seat.
Then, she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat.
Finally, she'd instruct, "Never, never sit on a public toilet seat."
And she'd demonstrate "The Stance," which consisted of balancing over
the toilet in a sitting position without actually letting any of your flesh
make contact with the toilet seat. But by this time, I'd have peed down my
leg and we'd go home.*
That was a long time ago. I've had lots of experience
with public toilets since then, but I'm still not particularly fond of public
toilets, especially those with powerful, red-eye sensors. Those toiletsknow
when you want them to flush. They are psychic toilets. But I always confuse
their psychic ability by following my mother's advice and assuming The Stance.
The Stance is excruciatingly difficult to maintain when one's bladder
is especially full. This is most likely to occur after watching a full-length
feature film. You know what I mean. You drink a two liter cup of Diet Coke,
then sit still through a three-hour saga because, for God's sake, even
if you didn't wipe or wash your hands in the bathroom, you'd still miss the
pivotal part of the movie or the second scene, in which they flash the
leading man's naked derriere.
So, you cross your legs and you hold it. And you hold it until thatfirst credit
rolls and you sprint to the bathroom, about ready to explode all* over
your internal organs. And at the bathroom, you find a line of women that
makes you think there's a half-price sale on Mel Gibson's underwear in there.
So, you wait and smile politely at all the other ladies, also crossing their
legs and smiling politely.
And you finally get closer. You check for feet under the stall doors.
Every one is occupied. You hope no one is doing frivolous things behind those stall
doors, like blowing her nose or checking the contents of her wallet.
Finally, a stall door opens and you dash, nearly knocking down the woman
leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter. You
hang your handbag on the door hook, yank down your pants and assume The Stance.
Relief. More relief.
Then your thighs begin to shake. You'd love to sit down but you
certainly hadn't taken time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper on it,
so you hold* The Stance as your thighs experience a quake that would register an
eight on the Richter scale. To take your mind off it, you reach
*for the toilet paper.* Might as well be ready when you are done. The toilet paper
dispenser is empty.* Your thighs shake more.* You remember the tiny napkin you
wiped your fingers on after eating buttered popcorn.* It would have to do. You
crumble it in the puffiest way possible. It is still smaller than your thumbnail.
Someone pushes open your stall door because the latch doesn't work and
your pocketbook whams you in the head. "Occupied!" you scream as you reach out for
the door, dropping your buttered popcorn napkin in a puddle and falling backward,
directly onto the toilet seat.
You get up quickly, but it's too late. Your bare bottom has made contact
with all the germs and life forms on the bare seat because YOU never laid
down toilet paper, not that there was any, even if you had enough time
to.* And your mother would be utterly ashamed of you if she knew, because her* bare
bottom never touched a public toilet seat because, frankly, "You don't* know what
kind of diseases you could get."
And by this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so
confused that it flushes, sending up a stream of water akin to a
fountain and then it suddenly sucks everything down with such force
that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged
to China.
At that point, you give up. You're finished peeing. You're soaked by the
splashing water. You're exhausted. You try to wipe with a Chiclet
wrapper you found in your pocket, then slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.**
You can't figure out how to operate the sinks with the automatic sensors, so you
wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past a line of women,
still waiting, cross-legged and unable to smile politely at this point. One kind
soul at the very end of the line points out that you are
trailing a piece of toilet paper on your shoe as long as the Mississippi River.
You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman'ss hand and say
warmly, "Here. You might need this."
At this time, you see your spouse, who has entered, used and exited his
bathroom and read a copy of War and Peace while waiting for you.
"What took you so long?" he asks annoyed. This is when you kick him
sharply in the shin and go home.
HANDY USES FOR A CONDOM
*Hair tie
*Slip 'er over a payphone to avoid "NASTY" germs
*Bathing cap (if you stretch it in the right manner)
*Neat travel case for your toothbrush
*Wet suit for a ferret
*Finger puppets
*Travel size shampoo and conditioner holders
*Rubber boot for a peg leg
*Latex toe warmers
*Stuff, and use to stop drafts under doors
*Fill with rocks and use to as a weapon in a crisis situation.
*Makeshift sandbags in the event of a flood
*To keep candles dry when camping
*Build your own incredible "Water Weenies" ...(my fav of them all)
*To quickly fill water pistols
*Bicycle tire tube
*Change purse
*Goodyear Blimp model
*For those long car trips that dad hates to stop for potty breaks
*Use it to store that urine sample next time you go to the doc for a checkup
Senior Citizen's pickup lines:
"What's a nice girl like you doing in a place
like...where exactly are we again?"
"Do you smell that? That's either love, or I used too
much ointment this morning."
"Yes, I'm 92... but I have the body of a 78-year-old."
"WHO'S your granddaddy?"
"Your beautiful blue eyes are like limpid sapphire
pools. Your blue hair, too."
"Hey babe, looking for a good time? How's about
coming home with me and... Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z-Z."
|