Thursday, August 03, 2006
I just returned from the bathroom, abused and broken, which is becoming the norm around here.
In a way, it's strangely appropriate for a bathroom to be a place of victimization. We all retreat there in our most shameful moments, slaves to nature or our own poor decisions. Who among us has never collapsed wearily onto a cold toilet seat, or kneeled over that infamous porcelain bowl, staring at a blurry reflection in the water, waiting for nausea to finally win? We're all victims, but I suffer in a different way, from a friendly perpetrator who's hard to hate.
He reminds me of a clean-shaven Santa Claus. Tall, fat, gray-haired, with a booming voice and hearty smile. His jolly demeanor almost seems forced, like he's playing a role. If he had a long white beard, I'd be tempted to sit on his knee and ask for some new toys. What's strange is that I only see him in the bathroom. I have no idea what his job is or where he sits. I don't even know his name. But when our paths inevitably cross in the bathroom, it's always the same exchange.
First, there's a witty remark. He'll see me drying my hands with a stack of brown paper towels and say something like, "Careful, those things ain't free," or "Hey, don't be stealing those."
Then comes the famous grin and the soulful chuckle, and finally...THUMP!... he'll sock me on the arm with one of his ham-sized fists.
Occasionally, he breaks the cycle. One day, certain the bathroom was empty, I was using a urinal and humming a little song to myself. Then, out of nowhere, I got bombed in the back by one of those drumsticks, and he said something like, "Watch your back!" I narrowly avoided peeing all over myself, but my back was sore.
Sometimes, to avoid a friendly blow, I'll stake out the bathroom before I go in. When I'm certain it's safe, I'll run in, make my deposit, and run back out. Success!
To protect myself from such attacks, I've been training in the mystical art of "lava-tor-ay," which uses items commonly found in lavatories to defend one's self and fight back. For example, a rubber toilet plunger, in the right hands, can bust a head like a ripe melon. A toilet seat, ripped from its base, can be a lethal throwing ring. Liquid soap, applied to the eyes, can blind an attacker for hours. A urinal cake swung in a tubesock can deliver a powerful blow. And when you're really desperate, grab a roll of toilet paper and run like crazy. No one likes to be stranded in a bathroom without toilet paper.
In a way, it's strangely appropriate for a bathroom to be a place of victimization. We all retreat there in our most shameful moments, slaves to nature or our own poor decisions. Who among us has never collapsed wearily onto a cold toilet seat, or kneeled over that infamous porcelain bowl, staring at a blurry reflection in the water, waiting for nausea to finally win? We're all victims, but I suffer in a different way, from a friendly perpetrator who's hard to hate.
He reminds me of a clean-shaven Santa Claus. Tall, fat, gray-haired, with a booming voice and hearty smile. His jolly demeanor almost seems forced, like he's playing a role. If he had a long white beard, I'd be tempted to sit on his knee and ask for some new toys. What's strange is that I only see him in the bathroom. I have no idea what his job is or where he sits. I don't even know his name. But when our paths inevitably cross in the bathroom, it's always the same exchange.
First, there's a witty remark. He'll see me drying my hands with a stack of brown paper towels and say something like, "Careful, those things ain't free," or "Hey, don't be stealing those."
Then comes the famous grin and the soulful chuckle, and finally...THUMP!... he'll sock me on the arm with one of his ham-sized fists.
Occasionally, he breaks the cycle. One day, certain the bathroom was empty, I was using a urinal and humming a little song to myself. Then, out of nowhere, I got bombed in the back by one of those drumsticks, and he said something like, "Watch your back!" I narrowly avoided peeing all over myself, but my back was sore.
Sometimes, to avoid a friendly blow, I'll stake out the bathroom before I go in. When I'm certain it's safe, I'll run in, make my deposit, and run back out. Success!
To protect myself from such attacks, I've been training in the mystical art of "lava-tor-ay," which uses items commonly found in lavatories to defend one's self and fight back. For example, a rubber toilet plunger, in the right hands, can bust a head like a ripe melon. A toilet seat, ripped from its base, can be a lethal throwing ring. Liquid soap, applied to the eyes, can blind an attacker for hours. A urinal cake swung in a tubesock can deliver a powerful blow. And when you're really desperate, grab a roll of toilet paper and run like crazy. No one likes to be stranded in a bathroom without toilet paper.
# posted by RBW @ 9:45 AM 
