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Ranting
with Raikus: Ass Aviation
Columns have been rolling into the Crapper for the last four weeks now and
there's one thing that's seemed to be lacking. Not one column has talked
about our beloved namesake. Not one column has paid homage to the porcelain
god, or spoke good about white John, or even shot the shit about the throne.
Well that's all about to change…
ASIDE
See? Now wasn't that a kick ass
opening? I mean it got you all pumped up, right? You're ready to see an
article about shit (or at least comparative of). Something that upgrades the
glorious Crapper and makes you glad to be a part of it.
Well, Duffless wrote about it last
week so disregard my glorious opening. I'm not bitter (since I wrote this
two weeks ago) mind you. I'm just really, really pissed off.
END ASIDE
I consider myself a "Shit Break" man.
I like to take care of my business in the comfort of my home, far away from
the multitudes of disease, scuzziness, and just plain bad aim. It's a
comfort knowing that you're planting you ass in familiar terrain; knowing
that there will be no surprises such as painful warts or nasty rashes to be
suffered the next day.
I regard this as a freedom, a
liberty, and a damned constitutional mandate.
But once in a blue moon, I misjudge
my delivery system and have to facilitate (shudders) another's facility. No,
not a friend's facility, or even the workplace facility.
A public facility.
I recently found myself in this
quandary while shopping in a well-known department store chain. It will go
unnamed, but suffice it to say that their TV commercials are fastly
approaching the campy annoyance of Old Navy. This store considers itself the
height of fashion, so much so that they design their bathrooms to have full
chrome stalls. This, aesthetically at least, is pleasing. However once you
get down to practicality, shiny surfaces that reflect every inch of bathroom
to curious eyes just isn't a good thing.
My first dilemma was a moral one.
There were only two stalls in this place, and damn it if both were
available. It seems a rather simple choice, right? The handicap stall has a
sink, mirror, paper towel roll, and a toilet with more legroom than first
class on Air Force One. The other has a door that hits the toilet when you
open it and a plastic toilet roll cover that basically rests on the lid.
Well, I'm a rather large person: 6'3", over a deuce-all that jazz-and a
3'x5' sewage cell just doesn't make me giddy.
Unfortunately, my conscience is the
size of Rosie O'Donnell's ass.
I crammed into the stall feeling like
a bull in a cattle shoot and begin constructing the runway. Now my runways
are complex-La Guardia-like, even. I usually lay down a five-piece, double
layered pad before I land, but I was a bit rushed and the single ply was
being uncoroperative.
It wasn't the landing I was hoping
for, but as they say, "Any landing you can walk away from…"
Okay, I was finally down, but
couldn't fully open the payload. The stall walls were so narrow that I was
knee to knee in chromed fetters. Well, no one likes this. You want to drop
the bombs with minimum contact, but you just can't, and you know it's going
to slide through more than the brown eye.
At this point I didn't care. I was
just about to cut loose when the bathroom door opened.
So I'm shy, what can I say? I need
audible diversions before I can make my music. It isn't a pride thing; I
just can't cut loose with someone else in there taking a quiet tinkle.
So I wait-breath held, lip bit, and
cheeks clinched. This man had the bladder of a racehorse, but not the
stamina. There were three times I thought he finished, only to hear him rare
up again. Finally the flush came and shortly after, my release.
The first release is otherworldly
bliss. There's a sense of euphoria that makes you think, I ate this and soon
it will forever be purged from my body-unless I'm a vegan. It's a contact
high though, for as soon as clearance is issued, the feeling fades away and
you're left with the grim recognition that you just thoroughly enjoyed
taking a dump.
The prompter turd had been taken came
of. The racehorse washed his hands and walked out the door. I could finally
take my time and let them drop as they came. Wrong. Someone else walked in.
Now maybe it's me. Maybe I'm not up
on the unwritten laws of the male bathroom, but I thought that if you used
the urinal you were supposed to refrain from passing gas as loudly as you
can. I know that whenever I use the urinal, even if I've got to let some
fumes go, I do it silently if I do it at all.
This gasbag lets out not one, not
two, but nine echoing farts! He made more of a ruckus with his number one,
than I did with my number two! He had to know that I was there. I'm sure the
reflection of my khaki shorts and Looney Toons boxers around my ankles was
visible on the wall right in front of him, but he cut loose like he was the
only one there-in the state.
Is this proper? Is this right? Am I
just so behind on bathroom etiquette that I feel bad for making noise while
on the pot while this man proceeds to blast the seem out of his Dockers?
Even after this one-man band had left his studio (mind you, without even
washing his hands) I was still hesitant, but I managed to finish my job.
Just as I was reaching for the toilet
paper some other people entered into the bathroom. I'm so bad that I can't
even wipe with other people in the room. I freeze up like the kid in Witness
and wait, silent as a mime, doing everything short of pulling my feet up to
conceal my union with the commode. But they too, like yesterday's food, soon
passed and I was free to regain my feet, conceal my manhood with my shorts,
and make eye contact with the person walking around the corner.
Fuck!
I'm so freaking tall that I'm head
and shoulders above the stall. Sure, this unnamed department chain can
invest in plenty of shiny surfaces, but ask them to use some of their
exploited money to add some length to a stall and what do you get? Bupkiss.
And now I'm stuck making eye contact with some weirdo and he's… he's smiling
at me! He is smirking like I've been his butt monkey for the last five years
and it's time for a little reacquainting. Mind you, I only made eye contact
for a little over a second, but it was like an eternity.
I have to stop. The recalling of
these events is casing me undue mental anguish. I wish I could continue
(maybe I will next week) but right now I'm in need for some counseling.
But just remember that the next time
you have to take a dump in Targ-in some department store, just hold it.
You'll be the better person for it. |
