Home bowl syndrome

Another chapter in the story: You can't go home again, but you can shit there.

I can't shit at my childhood home. Well, I could, but the current occupants would probably be pissed. So the closest thing I have to a nostalgic place to dump is the home my Dad still lives in, the one our family bought in 1990. It has three bathrooms, one of which my sister and I shared. At 16, I was happiest b/c the bathroom was on the second floor and I didn't have to worry about our nosy neighbor walking thru our backyard on her way to knocking on our back door (all these years later though and I still close the window and pull the shades).

Anyway very early on in our occupancy we noticed that the upstairs bathroom got clogged--a lot. As the main occupant, I knew I wasn't the cause, but Dad didn't believe me. At one point I may have tried to blame my sister, I'm not sure. Finally, after a year or so of this, my parents finally called in a plumber....who dug deep and found A TOWEL deep in the pipes. Apparently one of the construction workers decided to flush it instead of throwing it out. The plumber pulled it out (TWSS) but the damage had been done. Twenty years later, the toilet still has a weaker resistance to shit and paper than its household brethren.

All of which makes things complicated for me, as you can imagine. I noted this is the closest thing I have to a hometown shitter, so I like to save one for when I get to bat last. It wasn't a big deal to need the plunger until recently, and it was a running joke at the house--"Oh geez, Beej is home, better put the plunger upstairs"--but since my Mom died, my Dad has been crazy stressed about every little maintenance issue at the house. So I try to avoid shitting there if possible and saving my nuclear deposits for my sister's.

Alas, the pizza I had for dinner at her house Sunday night had different plans, and so there I was hours later, racing for the bathroom at Dad's and hoping for the best.

After a few minutes, my Dad walked upstairs. "Everything OK?" he says.

"Sure is," I said. In reality, I was feeling like Jeff Daniels in "Dumb and Dumber," scared, well, shitless that I was going to have a monstrous problem on my hands. I was conservative with my post-shitting paper usage, hoping for quality over quantity and hoping maybe I could take a second swipe at things, and I flushed.

I listened, because I was too scared to look: Water flushing...flushing...flushing...oh shit, there's that familiar clogging sound. Shit.

I got up and assessed the damage. It wasn't too bad. The water was a little higher than normal. We wouldn't have a flood, and in fact I could probably delay the plunging until my Dad was in bed. Of course, the problem with that is he's an OCD guy who occasionally just walks thru the house making sure everything is exactly the same as it was an hour ago. He also knows his son's shitter history, so it wasn't out of the realm that he'd check the bathroom anyway.

But I had no choice. I couldn't go to the first floor bathroom--five feet from his recliner--and grab the plunger. I had to wait.

Every time Dad got up over the next few hours, I held my breath. Every time he walked upstairs, I cringed in anticipation. But it never happened. He never checked the bathroom. He says good night and I wait a little while to make sure he's asleep and then I take the plunger upstairs.

I take a deep breath, flush, pray and plunge. There is that horrible two- or three-second span where the water is spiraling down and you don't know if it's going to continue uninterrupted or if it's going to revolt, like the pizza on me a few hours earlier.

But it flushes without a hiccup. JACKPOT! All was well. I strut downstairs and return the plunger to its rightful spot. He'll never be any wiser. Unless he reads SJ, in which case I'm fucked for many reasons.

 

It would only be for eight seconds at a time. You could handle it.

 

There is a whole another thread in "sounds you make to (subtley) let someone know that you are in another restroom stall so they don't give you a heart attack checking the door of yours."
I prefer the slight "doctor checking you for a hernia cough." The people who sigh freak me out. I guess paper shufflers are okay, but it makes me think they enjoy crapping in public stalls, which in itself is creepy.

At a beer festival a couple of weeks ago I hit one of those porto-trough urinals. Those things are sweet. Walk-in one end. Piss. Walk out the other end. Kind of like a car wash.

 

I'm about to enjoy Domino's for dinner.
Gonna have to get over my HBS before I leave for my evening event.
Thank god I downloaded my free digital copy of The Hangover for my phone.

 

I thought only chics worried about sh*tting in public restrooms.

 

At a gas station restroom a couple of weeks ago. Two items posted in the bathroom vicinity gave me pause:

1. A giant, handwritten note taped to the front of the single toilet bathroom door that read: "If the door is locked, it means someone is IN THERE. Do not pound on the door. Do not ask attendant to open the door." Now how many goddamn times did morons wander up to the desk, befuddled because the door was locked? What the hell else is one supposed to assume?

2. Inside said bathroom, another note that read: "We at xxxxx take pride in our cleanliness. Please push the button below to notify attendant if a bathroom check is required." Taped over the button was another note, "DO NOT PUSH THE BUTTON."

This particular bathroom was so disgusting, I don't think sewer rats would feel comfortable pissing in it.

 

On an assignment a few weeks ago, I went to use the bathroom. Inside the stall was a sign that said:

"TURDS ARE NOT CRAYONS!!! PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL OF OUR FACILITIES!"

I turned around and left.

 

You win.

 

Turds are not crayons, but they can be used the same way.

 

I asked someone what was up with the sign. They said "Well, someone's been using turds like they're crayons. We're tired of cleaning it up."

Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer I guess.

 

Band trip to NYC freshman year of high school, and we were on a tour bus heading to our hotel to check in. I had to go, but thought I could hold it. By the time we got in the shadows of NYC, I couldn't. I made a beeline for that commode and unloaded a big one.

Everyone on the bus knew it as soon as I came out of the bathroom. I didn't care, though, because I was notorious for taking a crap after everyone one of the football games and band contests we performed at.

 

I know golf courses aren't known for the best oncourse facilities, but there's a course in Central Texas that has one place that is pathetic.
For starters, it has a door that won't close and then when you get in, it's the hole in the ground variety. It gives the resemblance of a toilet seat, and there is TP, but you'd have to be a nut to use it. You look down and you are just doing your business on the ground below (think Slumdog Millionaire).

Didn't think too much of it until I realize it's next to one of the main course lakes, and that ground has to empty somewhere. Needless to say if my ball went in the water, the water could keep it. And I wouldn't wanna be diving for golfballs there either.