Friday, October 17, 2008

Always Check for Toliet Paper First

This is a post that I did not write. I had a similar experience recently and it reminded me of this hilarious story I received through email awhile back. I'm not sure who actually wrote it but try not to pee yourself while reading it. I almost did!

The first thing my mother taught me was to grab a handful of toilet paper and wipe the seat. Then, she'd carefully lay strips of toilet paper to cover the seat. Lesson two was learning to assume 'The position'. This required carefully balancing over the toilet in a squatting position without actually letting any of your flesh make contact with the toilet seat.

That was a long time ago. Even now, in my forties, 'The Position' is excruciatingly difficult to maintain for more than thirty seconds, especially when one's bladder is bursting.

If that wasn't bad enough, when you have to visit a public restroom, you usually find a line of anxious women have got there before you. So, you wait, trying not to look as if you're squeezing your legs together and smile politely at all the other women, who are also trying not to cross their legs and smiling through clenched teeth.

As you get closer to your goal, you start checking for feet under cubicle doors. Naturally every one is occupied. Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman leaving the stall. You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter; you have long arms and tell yourself: 'I'll just keep one hand against it.' At this point you would hang your handbag on the coat hook if there was one—but there isn't—so you hang it around your neck whilst glancing furtively about to make sure no one saw you commit such a dreadful faux pas. You could put it on floor, but given that the floors in public toilets are invariably wet, you might just as well pee in it yourself.

Finally, you yank down your drawers, and assume the dreaded 'Position'.

Ahhhh, relief. More relief. But then your thighs begin to shake, not helped by the fact that your left arm is stretched to its fullest extent trying to keep the door shut. You'd love to sit down but you didn't have time to wipe the seat or lay toilet paper down, so you hold 'The Position' as a quake that would register an eight on the Richter scale travels through your aching thighs. To take your mind off the pain, you reach for what you now discover is an empty toilet paper dispenser. In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying: "Darling, if you'd cleaned the seat first, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet paper!"

Your thigh muscles are seconds away from snapping like old panties elastic. You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday—the one that's in your handbag, which you cannot unzip because you only have one free hand. So you take your hand off the door and scrabble about in your bag until you find a ball of paper that would barely cover a gnat's butt. You smooth it out and fluff it up, but it is still only slightly larger than your thumbnail. At this point someone pushes open the door because you've taken your hand away to open your bag. The door hits your handbag, which thumps you in the chest and you and your bag topple backward against the toilet seat—which is disconcertingly wet.

"Occupied!" you scream, as you slam the door shut, dropping your precious, tiny, crumpled tissue on the wet floor and parking your naked butt directly on the odious toilet seat. You recoil instantly, knowing only too well the damage is done. Your bare butt has made contact with every imaginable germ on the planet because YOU never laid down toilet paper on the filthy seat—not that there was any, even if you had bothered to look. You may even have contracted a sexually transmitted disease—or worse, been impregnated by some adventurous sperm that escaped from the disgusting slut who sat on the seat before you, and has been patiently biding its time waiting for its next victim.

You know that your mother would be utterly ashamed of you if she knew, because you're certain that her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat in her life. By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so confused that it flushes, sending up a stream of water to rival Niagara Falls that sucks everything down with such force that you grab onto the toilet paper dispenser for fear of having your bottom dragged off to China.

At that point, you give up. Your skirt is soaked by the splashing water, your blouse is sticking to your back, there's pee running down your legs and your panties look like the cat's been sleeping in them. You're exhausted. You try to wipe yourself with a crumpled bus ticket you found in your pocket, and slink out inconspicuously to the sinks, but not before laddering your tights on the broken door latch which you now discover has a great nail sticking out of it.

You can't work out how to operate the taps with the automatic sensors, so you wash your hands with liquid soap (most of which ends up on your blouse) and dry them under the hot air blower because, of course, there are no paper towels in the dispensers. Have you ever tried drying liquid soap with hot air? Ten minutes later you stumble out and shuffle past the queue of waiting women, still cross-legged and, at this point, you no longer care that your manic grimace is met with disapproving stares.

Just when you thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, 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 river Nile! (Where was it when you NEEDED it??) You rip the paper from your shoe, shove it in the woman's hand and tell her cattily, "Here—you might need this."

As you leave the house of horrors, you spot your husband loitering impatiently outside, having long since entered, used and left the men's toilets and read a copy of Gone with the Wind whist waiting for you.
The icing on the cake will be when he asks: "What took you so long, darling, and why is your skirt tucked into the back of your panties?" Silently you curse the bitch who pointed out the toilet paper stuck to your shoe, but omitted to mention that your butt has been on display to every pervert in the place.

Our male readers will now know not only why women take so long to powder their noses, but also why we always go to the toilet in pairs. It's so the other woman can hold the door shut and pass you the toilet paper under the door.




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