Friday, August 8, 2008

WtFF: An Open Letter to the Woman Who Won't Flush the Toilet

I work in an office building with shared bathrooms, and common logic (as well as child labor laws) guarantee that all those who share the "women's restroom" with yours truly are, physically, of legal age here in the Sunshine State. For my international readers, that age is 18. When you consider that most people learn the intricacies of the water closet at 2, you wonder what the hell is wrong with people who are old enough to elect the next leader of one of the most powerful countries in the world, but can't seem to figure out how to flush a fucking toilet.

It's a frightening time we live in, isn't it?

Please consider this open letter a Public Service Announcement. Feel free to print it and leave conspicuous copies around any offending lavatories you happen to come across.

Dear mysterious woman of not-so-mysterious bodily functions,

I'm assuming, of course, that wolves raised you. Or, if you're a native Floridian like myself, then perhaps it was a family of raccoons that found your prone, naked baby body alone in the swamp. How nice that the striped and banded little critters reared and fostered you through your formative years. I can understand then why the bathroom would be a mystery to you, and I guess I should give thanks that at least the items left floating in your wake are in the toilet rather than left to fester in a corner which, no doubt, is where your foster folks would have left their droppings.

What? You're not a Horrible Raccoon Woman? Well, then perhaps you're recovering from a catastrophic scooter vs. tractor trailer collision, and thanks to years and years of therapy you are an almost fully functioning person again. If that's the case, I'm impressed. You've made a lot of progress. However, you might want to discuss your "recovery" with your physical and mental therapists; the rules of restroom etiquette haven't quite been re-imprinted on your malfunctioning brain.

Hell, maybe it's a fetish, and I'm missing the hastily scrawled post-it notes reading, "Like what you see?" that accompany every presentation of voided bowel and bladder.

Personally, when I wreck my brain trying to come up with an explanation for the "why, why, why won't she flush the fucking toilet" that keeps screaming through my mind, I keep hoping it's the raccoons that raised you. At least that way I know you're washing your hands.

Hugs and Kisses,


1 comment:

Adrienne said...

A couple thoughts as I sit here and totally avoid all the necessary shit I need to get done before I ship off to the Oasis on Saturday...

1. Hooray for me and my newly acquired legal status as of yesterday! Doesn't really have a whole lot to do with your post, but it's still early enough in my 18th year of life that I can get excited about being Legal.

2. I COMPLETELY AGREE WITH YOUR LETTER!!! In fact, I think I have to print off a copy (slightly edited for gender) and leave one lying around conspicuously where my brothers can find it (god damn the world and its sadistic desire to make me share a bathroom with boys...) I mean COME ON! Do they not realize that, yes, other people DO use the toilet as well?

So in case you were thinking this sort of non-flushing, raised by raccoons was limited to Florida, I can assure you from the great land of ice and snow (Minnesota), IT'S EVERYWHERE!

Another thought... I read something somewhere (can't remember where exactly, but that's really not of dire consequence) that had this list of "ways to live greener" and one thing on this list was "Selective Toilet Flushing". I dunno, maybe I'm being prudish, anti-environment and whatnot, but I'm gonna have to say my desire to use clean, odor-free facilities trumps my love of aquatic creatures.

But that's just me.