And well done to those that had good money on me taking 15 posts to resort to toilet humor. For those that are easily offended or do not appreciate the refreshing sound of honesty, it may be time a great time to go and check out the latest post in the Grey Area.
The Loo.
The Can.
The Bog.
The John.
The Dunny.
The Latrine.
The Library.
The Quiet Room.
The Thunder Box.
The Outhouse.
The Porcelain Castle.
The Powder Room.
The Bathroom.
The Lavatory.
The Restroom.
The Washroom.
The Mens Room/The Ladies Room.
The Public Conveniences.
… and of course: The Head.
To be fair, I wanted to round out a top twenty by slipping in a few of the more salacious terms. And you know that slipping the phrase “Turd Aquarium” into a blog is a bit of fun, but doesn’t seem all that appropriate. And that seems like the right time to slip in a quick “Hi Mom!” which should let her know that she done dragged me up real good.
So, on The Island, I think they should this room the Shower Room. And it does get hot here. But I’m not sure that warrants having a full shower in the hand basin of The Small Room.
Serious relief is when you go to “drop the kids off at the pool” and as you walk into The Facilities, the mirror is drenched in spots of water. That was close!
But the flip side is that you cop serious collateral damage when you mistakenly walk into The Pisser while an overheated islander is performing a fully clothed wet-dog-shake in the hand basin.
Now, moving seamlessly from dogs to cats, I am a fan of habit. You find a stall that is clean, generally has paper and you’ve got yourself a few quiet minutes of effective reading time. And you like to go back to that stall. Preferably at the same time each day. But there must be 50 or 60 people on my floor at work. In the office Lav there are only two Cans (these are Latrines for you military personnel, or you northern hemisphere folk). Needless to say, after lunchtime it can be busier than a one-legged cat trying to bury a turd on a frozen pond. And when duty calls … well let’s just say that the other day I’ve had to select my non-preferred stall.
And so I have discovered The Squatter.
Unfortunately, this is not another colloquialism. As I walk into the stall it looks as if a Wookie has sat on The Crapper and squashed it into the ground.
Now, as a feller who has only really experienced the post 1596 era of flushing toilets, I am also unfortunately handicapped by being part of the post 1900’s era of the invention of paper Bog Roll. I have to confess to being little lost when I’m on level thirty-something of a modern office complex, and I’m confronted with “Honey I Shrunk the Pisser”. And a hose.
So there are no directions on the walls of the stalls (not even any graffiti to tell me to “Fart if I love the Lord”). No guide in the pocket on the back of the door. No instructions in the back of the seat in front like on airplanes. No signs to indicate how to begin. And although I could probably have worked it out, I have to admit conceding to a careful and deliberate walk down a few flights of stairs to Level 26.
And, Mom, the good news that I’m just about out of toilet jokes.
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My Dearest Most Crustaceous Crusty
ReplyDeleteMonsignor is a little surprised that you have managed to stomp your way across planet earth with so little heed and understanding of the cultural diversity and subtle nuances that so richly inhabit this little orb just left of Rigel Kent.
Pause here for some more communion wine to lubricate the remaining two spastic brain cells.
Monsignor does realise that you hail from Yankee land and as such carry with you all the baggage of a country hick.
However we would have hoped that by now you would have managed to learn some of the trappings of civilised society’s refinements – especially in the department of personal hygiene.
Here we replace the communion wine, now finished, with a dash of whisky from some little island way north of pommie land.
One would have thought that on the travels to the land of the rising sun (you have been there, haven’t you?) you would have realised the cultural significance of the gentlemen’s abode.
Perhaps you did not have the exquisite please of staying at the Tsukahara Hilton?
Ye old commode arrives in 3 distinct flavours – no taste test please! – dependant on your standing within the community and social circles (yes I know the padded room is a square), your breeding (strike 1, 2 and 3), heritage and the amount of that most vulgar item – money that you have.
For the lower caste, the serfs and the like, the in floor model that you have just “discovered” is most adequate as their needs are simple and even Chewbecca could figure it out. No flushing or moving parts means no maintenance, just a sloshing of disinfectant to kill the plague once a week.
For the aspiring middle classes putting on airs (and oh how we are cursed with their pretentiousness) a slightly more comfortable model is available. This has a seating position close to that of a normal kitchen chair and a flushing mechanism to remove the unmentionables.
Typically these will also be enclosed offering some privacy to the doer and hiding such sights from more cultured eyes.
For the more pretentious middle class technologically inclined trying to show of and impress others of their lack of understanding of culture, breeding and status, (in such vulgar fashions) there is the booty washing version – Oooh - Whoops wrong button!
Unfortunately much of its use is by trail and error.
And finally:
http://morecontrol.com/2009/09/spaloo-primus-toilet-has-a-remote-not-for-tv/
However the always practical Yanks have a Glad wrapped version that works with sensors to advance the planet destroying plastic so you always have a nice clean, cold, slippery bit to sit on.
Maybe the ultimate carbon offset?
Also in Espanol.
Monsignor will now retire to the jewel encrusted golden throne and place his delicate, well bred and cultured rear upon a kid leather heated seat…..
Jeeves, the brandy please.