Thursday, March 12, 2009

Who Knows What Evil Lurks...

The Deepest Blues are Black - Foo Fighters (mp3)
Set It Off - Girl Talk (mp3)

I'm having a Bizarro Andy Rooney moment. Please forgive me.

Few things on earth are more awkward than taking a dump on a black toilet.

Am I the only person who gets weirded out by black toilets? When I see a black toilet, I think Area 51. I think aliens and black-ops conspiracies and that old '80s TV series V with the lizard-faced people and the dude who eventually became Freddie Kreuger. People whose houses have black toilets are either ashamed of themselves or have big smelly secrets to hide. There's no other explanation.

When we go #2, there's this standard set of procedures we all must follow. We must wipe the seat down or cover it. We must sit. We must do our business while reading an entire newspaper or drawing penises on some flat surface along with our friend's phone number and the times they're available to meet anyone interested in a good time. This is stuff we all do, so up to this point, everything's normal. White toilet, black toilet, mauve toilet, it matters not.

But eventually we must stand, and eventually we must wipe, and that's when black toilets mess with the mojo.

All of us look into the toilet bowl after wiping. (Stop tryin' to deny it!!) It's as much a part of our human nature as our need to eat donuts or bet on sporting events. We look down into that bowl for two essential reasons:
  1. to see what kind of poo we made -- Lincoln logs or cucumbers or rabbit pellets or yogurt;
  2. to make sure the plumbing is healthy -- no red, no green, no ectoplasm.
This shit is a whole lot more important than our economy or China, 'cuz it's about home decoration and proper digestion and the need for human beings to see their poo after they made it. Beholding our fecal creations is one of those things that keeps us closer to God. We are the molders of our own shit; we must see if it is Good, and if it is, we can rest. If it isn't, we gotta go drink some Pepto and pray.

Cavemen had no better way of knowing about the status of their innards. Their poop was their best medical clue. CSI:Crap Scene Investigation. And they passed this habit down through the eons. We do this because it's totally instinctual.

Was the poop good and thick? Was it streaked with a little blood, or did it look kinda moldy? And, most importantly, was it a two-flusher? You'll never know, because those bastards installed a black fucking toilet! You might walk out of that bathroom with streaks of your poo still stuck to that black porcelain, but apparently your host thinks ignorance is bliss.

In a black toilet, you look down to see your business, and all you see is this pit of darkness and despair. It's like you're staring into the Loch Ness at midnight, and the best you're going to get is maybe the top of a turd, poking up above the water like the legendary monster's head in that famous picture.

The more one thinks one's shit doesn't stink, the more likely one possesses a black toilet. They don't want you to see your poop because they don't want to see their poop. They want to act like shit doesn't happen, but it does! Shit happens! We're full of shit!

And Now a Word from a Sponsor Who Isn't Sponsoring Us...

Amazon.com right now has three different sets of classical music that any decent human being presently unschooled in classical music should consider purchasing. All are part of a The 99 Essential... series. Ninety-nine songs. One for Mozart, one for Beethoven, and one a catch-all of everyone's "greatest." Each collection can be yours for the ludicriously low price of $7.99.

These collections are the lazy person's way to seem sophisticated and knowledgeable, and I'm the first to admit such. Buying a collection of 99 "essential" classical music songs, with tracks that range from just over a minute to just under 10, is like buying a collection of 99 Cliff's Notes versions of classic novels. OTOH, Mozart's CV makes Springsteen's look like a haiku. How the hell is someone who's curious about classical music but not setting out to become a snob about it supposed to dip their toe in the water, enjoy a few orchestral moments in their raucous and electric life?

By spending $8 for several hours of "essential" stuff. That's how. So go and consider broadening your classical horizons and simultaneously annoying the hell out of music snobs by buying one of these collections. I can't imagine a better combination than that.

And it makes for great music when sitting on someone's black toilet.

3 comments:

The Big Nichols said...

In memory of John Updike:
http://scatalogue.blogspot.com/2005/10/beautiful-bowel-movement-by-john.html

John said...

Big Boy
by David Sedaris
(excerpt from Me Talk Pretty One Day)



It was Easter Sunday in Chicago, and my sister Amy and I were attending an afternoon dinner at the home of our friend John. The weather was nice, and he'd set up a table in the backyard so that we might sit in the sun. Everyone had taken their places, when I excused myself to visit the bathroom, and there, in the toilet, was the absolute biggest turd I have ever seen in my life - no toilet paper or anything, just this long and coiled specimen, as thick as a burrito. I flushed the toilet, and the big turd trembled. It shifted position, but that was it. This thing wasn't going anywhere. I thought briefly of leaving it behind for someone else to take care of, but it was too late for that. Too late, because before getting up from the table, I'd stupidly told everyone where I was going. "I'll be back in a minute," I'd said. "I'm just going to run to the bathroom."

My whereabouts were public knowledge. I should have said I was going to make a phone call. I'd planned to urinate and maybe run a little water over my face, but now I had this to deal with. The tank refilled, and I made a silent promise. The deal was that if this thing would go away, I'd repay the world by performing some unexpected act of kindness. I flushed the toilet a second time, and the big turd spun a lazy circle. "Go on," I whispered. "Scoot! Shoo!" I turned away, ready to perform my good deed, but when I looked back down, there it was, bobbing to the surface in a fresh pool of water. Just then someone knocked on the door, and I stated to panic.



"Just a minute."

At an early age my mother sat me down and explained that everyone has bowel movements. "Everyone," she'd said. "Even the president and his wife." She'd mentioned our neighbors, the priest, and several of the actors we saw each week on television. I'd gotten the overall picture, but natural or not, there was no way I was going to take responsibility for this one. "Just a minute." I seriously considered lifting this turd out of the toilet and tossing it out the window. It honestly crossed my mind, but john lived on the ground floor and a dozen people were seated at a picnic table ten feet away. They'd see the window open and notice something dropping to the ground. And these were people who would surely gather round and investigate. Then there I'd be with my unspeakably filthy hands, trying to explain that it wasn't mine. But why bother throwing it out the window if it wasn't mine? No one would have believed me except the person who had left it in the first place, and chances were pretty slim that the freak in question would suddenly step forward and own up to it. I was trapped.


"I'll be out in a second!"


I scrambled for a plunger and used the handle to break the turd into manageable pieces, all the while thinking that it wasn't fair, that this was technically not my job. Another flush and it still didn't go down. Come on, pal. Let's move it. While waiting for the tank to refill, I thought maybe I should wash my hair. It wasn't dirty, but I needed some excuse to cover the amount of time I was spending in the bathroom. Quick, I thought. Do something. By now the other guests were probably thinking I was the type of person who uses dinner parties as an opportunity to defecate and catch up on my reading.


"Here I come. I'm just washing up."


One more flush and it was all over. The thing was gone and out of my life. I opened the door, to find my friend Janet, who said, "Well, it's about time." And I was left thinking that the person who'd abandoned the huge turd had no problem with it, so why did I? Why the big deal? Had it been left there to teach me a lesson? Had a lesson been learned? Did it have anything to do with Easter? I resolved to put it all behind me, and then I stepped outside to begin examining the suspects

Daytimerush said...

Oh my!!! So funny!!! (Throwing it out the window?)