So, during my recent sojourn to the Club with DV, whilst sipping elegantly on the aforementioned Cosmo (my 3rd) and ruing my pending bathroom break, I was disgusted by the fact that the seemingly dainty, well clad, sweet young ‘ladies’ were in reality, a herd of nasty heifers! It was astounding! They were perfumed, made up and elegantly garbed, and yet, they left fecal matter in toilets, stuffed sanitary napkins in the toilets, did not flush, randomly dropped tissue on the floor, and left faucets running until water overflowed! Backside (pun intended)! You leave your yaad for a couple of hours and you have to dump, so???
Sadly, this issue is not limited to the female restroom at this particular club, but the sad fact is that this is often the scenario with female restrooms in general. Even at my place of employ, so called professional women must be reminded via signage, not to flush sanitary napkins, a lesson that was imparted from grade school. This is the norm, and not the exception, as these signs are evident in restrooms in bars, malls, restaurants, and other office buildings.
I was once asked what I would do if I could spend one day as a man. My sophisticated response:
1) I would be the recipient of fellatio 2) I would pee standing up.
I would pee in corners. I would pee in bushes. I would pee on light poles. I would pee out my car window. I would loosen my wanker (and I am positive that I would be well endowed) and piss all over the place, STANDING! I would have conversations while I peed. I would water gardens with my pee, all for the glory of peeing where and when I wanted to, and not being relegated to the prison of a nasty public toilet, and needing to wipe when I was through. Shake and go. Sigh. The scars that live with me from playing mass during Carnival, and no toilets were in sight! The scars that live with me after being at a concert or fete, and having to use a a public restroom or, God forbid, a port-a-loo! I need therapy!!
My Mom had always theorized that women were either divided into toilet-squatters, or toilet-sitters. I am not sure if there are associated psychological assessments to the squatter / sitter personality, but, at least she indicated that there was a division. The aforementioned toilet psychologist had always trained me to be a squatter, regaling me with tales of germs infesting my ‘poony’ or my ‘tush’. To this day, rabid fear keeps me well perched over the alien toilet, as there would be hell to pay should I ever sit (or collapse). One positive result from this has been the development of very strong leg muscles, though squatting has become very difficult with the onset of my arthritic knees. Nor did I ever believe in the sitters’ concept of lining the seat with tissue either, as 1) the tissue also has rancid public germs 2) the rancid public germs will infest the entire tissue, from the time that it is layered on the seat and seep into my backside. My mother’s lesson lives on.
So, fellas, the moral of the story is that the next time that you are out at a social event, looking for viable candidates from whom you are to obtain potential notches to your bed posts or possible wife, girlfriend or ‘other’ material, go and take a peek into the ladies’ restroom at the end of the night. Review each stall. Interview your potential candidates as to their toilet etiquette (or lack thereof). Maybe this will give you with some valuable insight as to the caliber of women that are frequenting said event, and whom you are taking to your yaad.
Though, of course, should you ever see an elegant seductress adorned with a big afro puff, elegantly sipping a Cosmo, she is, of course, excluded from this sweeping assessment .
And, on that facetious note, I shall now exit.