Bathroom Bullshit

OK. I can't take it anymore. What is wrong with people?!? Why do people lose all sense of personal hygiene and feel compelled to violate unwritten washroom codes in shared lavatories? Not to mention the visual and olfactoral assaults being inflicted on their fellow man. Or in my case, their fellow wo-man. If I am going to be forced to share a communal bathroom with countless coworkers in my office building, the LEAST everyone could do is be fucking courteous to others. Seriously, it's really is the least anyone can do.

Come on sistahs! Work with me here. Because I am a ticking time bomb, and your asses are in jeopardy, literally.

First off, what's with the talking? I don't know you. I don't want to talk to you. I especially don't want to make eye contact when I'm attempting to sneak into the powder room like the demure, fucking lady I am and drop the kids off at the pool. This is a sacred moment and I do not wish my anus to be disturbed by a stranger who feels the need to say hello to me inside those tiled walls. Outside in the hallway, no problem. Well, actually, please don't talk to me unless you know me. A half-hearted, closed-mouth smile will do just fine. I don't need anyone actually saying "hi" to me. OK?

And never, ever, did I mention ever?, talk to me through the doors. Unless you need some TP, or you've accidentally shat your liver into the terlet and need me to dial 911 and get you a ziplock bag, never strike up a convo with a stranger while seated on your respective cans in the stall. The gentle tinkle of my pee doesn't need the companion of your astute observation that it stopped raining. And don't you know that if my feet are firmly planted in front of me and there are NO sounds coming from my stall that I might be busy with other things? Alone-time things that I'd rather be doing alone? Negatory. Nine. Non. DON'T DO IT. YOU FREAK.

Now, let's talk about inside the actual commode. Always make sure whatever you have just put into the porcelain pot actually plummets down the pipe. Completely. I do not, let me repeat that for some of you ladies who might be a little slow today, DO NOT want to see your colon crumbs playing swirly swirl at the bottom of the bowl. I do not want to spend one single solitary moment wondering if that is indeed a remnant of green pepper ingested the previous night on your thin crust, low carb, non-fat cheese, veggie supreme pizza.

I do not want to contemplate if you've been getting enough god damn ruffage after witnessing the crap carnage you've left for me. I do not want to see the skid marks left by your nervous stomach. I do not want to examine your stinking urine to determine if you've had one too many packets of sugar in your coffee this morning.

Secondly, we'll cover the seat, so to speak. I do not want to have to maneuver my foot, or my $100 calf-skin boots, into the gaping mouth of the toilet to get your insufficiently disposed-of, soiled, ass gasket to sink into the water so I can finish the sub-standard job YOU started and flush it all down. I do not want to have to waste any of my precious bodily function time dealing with your slovenly potty behavior.

Nor do I want to be forced to clean your pee-pee drips off what should be my pristine seat. If you're going to attempt the hover, you'd better damn well be doing some serious squat work at the gym and have well-honed aim, because I do not want to sit down with an unsuspecting dry bottom and end up with that paper stuck to my ass soaking in your piss. That's enough to make me want to hunt you down and slip a few hundred Immodium AD's into your venti carmel macchiato.

And if you happen to leave some watch springs behind, bend over like a good girl and somehow flick them away. I don't care where, just away. Far far away to pube land so they can frolick with the other hairs I pretend never detach themselves from anyone's body, especially their ho-ha's. It's my little fantasy and I'd like to keep it that way.

And C, let's cover the air we share. I understand there are those who partake in some rather exotic culinary dishes from time to time, or you simply have an unfortunate lower-intestine limbo going on that's out of your control. But you do have control over what stench you leave behind for those poor unsuspecting fools who saunter into el baño innocent to the foul anal napalm aftermath you've dispensed from your gut.

For fuckssake, don't suck the oxygen out of this already dicey enclosed space. Strike a fekking match, spritz a little perfume, light your hair on fire, just DO SOMETHING that will cover up the heinous filth that was expelled from your ass. Our company supplies us with air fresheners. Depress the fucking button already. It's not that hard. Jebus.

And finally, I feel the need to complete this diatribe by addressing a topic most people don't want to talk about, but it needs to be done and I will not apologize for the following public service broadcast. Girls, we all know what we're up against by owning and operating the delicate female equipment we have. Call it a blessing or a curse. Call it whatever you will, but we all know what it's like to have that not-so-fresh-feeling. If you can smell you, then I can smell you. Get my drift? Wink wink, you stink. Either you need some quality time with a garden hose, or you require medical intervention. Either way, take care of it. We've all been there, I understand, but none of us should be victims to the rotting trout residing between your thighs.

We all know that it takes the dexterity of a surgeon and the talents of a circus juggler to work with tampons, pads, legs, cooters, toilet paper rolls, feminine product depositories that will take off a digit if you get too close, toilet seat covers that stick to your bum or plunge into the toilet before you have a chance to spin around, pantyhose that are twisted one and-a-half times around your thighs, etc., ad naseum.

I'm fully aware that it requires the limber spine of an Olympic gymnast and an extra hand we don't have to traverse all that encompasses the lavatory, but please, I implore you, please get rid of any and all evidence that you are currently hemorrhaging like a stuck pig. Wrap it, flush it, stuff it in your crack, but get rid of it. Safely and cleanly. Really, it's the least you can do. Thank you.

A very special P.S.

For the multiple (can you BELIEVE there are more than one?) women on my floor that leave the crapper without washing your hands, we know what you're doing and we will catch you. Oh yes we will. I've seen your clunky matronly shoes and witnessed your flowered coffee cups on the counter. You are disgusting and should be shunned in public, flogged with a box of Stayfree Maxi Pads with Wings and forced to relieve yourselves in the bushes down the hill. Marked with a scarlet P for Putrid Potty Pooper, for the duration of your employment here.

You are deplorable and putting the rest of us at risk for disease and major oogies. Is it not bad enough we eat off the lunch truck? We also have to manuever the restroom like anti-gravity CSI examiners? You are sick sick sick and we will catch you germ-handed one of these days. Mark my ass. We will catch you.