public bathrooms

In case you missed it, October’s our cynical celebration of our favorite death season. Every day, Ben will present one thing that scares him, ranging from the anxious and annoying to the deadly and doomed. This ~~Right Here Is My…SWAG~~ is one of those things that scares me:

On behalf of South Africans everywhere, I’d like to pass my ~~condolences~~ apologies. Ben claims to be American but, I have my doubts. I’ve known Americans to be a fearless bunch INVENTING phones, MOCKING the itsy bitsy spiders with their kids, and hanging out in public bathrooms during football games to warm up during the winter (good call to my freshman year professor for that recommendation) – not FEARing those things or anyone!

Americans are a proud folk who have somehow coined, trademarked, and completely monopolized the indelible “WE’RE NUMBER 1” sports chant… (patent pending). That holds true until some South Africans beat the snot out of the American “Eagles” in the Rugby World Cup as they did this past weekend with a decisive 64-0 Shutout. 64-0.. SIXTY FOUR. GOOD GAWD… You don’t have to understand the scoring in Rugby to get how terrible that is. America, meet me in the next paragraph, if you would be so kind.

Look, America. You’re good, right? I know your favorite newsman was recently replaced by South African, Trevor Noah – which will get awkward when he comes to talk $hit to Americans, about Americans… I would never do that, America! You know me! Known me more than half my life! I love you, America! I love ~~BASEBALL~~…~~HOCKEY~~…~~FOOTBALL~~…~~BASKETBALL~~… LEBRON JAMES, and HE’S American! Right? I love the Hawks! Not the Seattle Seahawks. They’re posers, and need to give that “Go Hawks” patent up to the Iowa Hawks of the heartland of farmin, hard-working, bread-basket, plain accent, this-ain’t-heaven-but-it’s-close IOWA! But I’m scared, America.

My fear is that thanks to this recent ass-handing by my Springboks, losing your beloved Jon Stewart, and Donald Trump’s surge in the polls – I will be issued a challenge in the immortal words of Iowa quarterback, Ricky Stanzi:

I love it. I don’t wanna leave it. So, despite that EMBARRASSMENT OF INTERNATIONAL PROPORTIONS America, WE still cool, right?

Yours Sincerely,

-South African

In cynical celebration of our favorite death celebrating season, we’re going all out on fear based topics this month. Every day, Ben will present one thing that scares him, ranging from the anxious and annoying to the deadly and doomed. This is… Things That Scare Me.

Public bathrooms… Just, so, so much yuck. I don’t even know where to start. I refuse to use public bathrooms unless it’s a situation of ACTUAL emergency. I’m talking Threat to National Security level of bowel concern. If I can hold it, I will. Because dude, fuck going in there.

Public toilets are literal totems to human filth, manifested physical pockets of humanity’s deepest, darkest, digested despairs. They’re vial, gutted structures of shit seepage, slimy cesspits holding solidified remains of excretory mistakes. To sit on a public toilet is to risk total molecular collapse by the hand of a super fungus, a degenerate disease grown in the bubbling gasses of captured flatulence, unidentifiable discharge, and puddles of boiling salted piss.

Or they are in men’s rooms are at the very least. As an unpaid child laborer, I was once offered the privilege of mopping a women’s restroom. It was like traveling to the fucking Shire. Gone were the hellish holes of molded black goop, encrusted sludge pits formed from rusted pipe sneezes, opened sores leaking the wafting rise of forgotten summer eggs. Instead, I found a tranquil, respectable place; despair replaced by the hint of a warm sea breeze and bleach, a healthy supply of toilet paper, and, for some inexplicable reason, an actual COUCH. A FUCKING COUCH! WHAT DO YOU NEED A COUCH IN A BATHROOM FOR?

I’m just jealous. Men’s rooms could never sustain a couch. Given eight unsupervised minutes, every clean surface is a men’s room WILL become covered in a fine layer of ass fur, as some Johnny Pubic-hair will inevitably stroll through, bush bundle in hand, decorating the stained linoleum with wayward strands of curled pubes, planted hairy seedlings hoping to blossom into fully grown pubic trees someday. 9 out of 10 urinals in men’s rooms look like they were installed under the watchful eye of a barber’s chair. Even if your super power is the ability to ignore the embedded smell of decades-long subfloor defecation build-up, it’s best not to inhale in a men’s room, least you find yourself hacking hair like a secondhand cat. I’m not scared of Hell, but I am scared of breathing that air.

I made the mistake of walking into a men’s room while wearing flip flops one time, intent on talking a quick piss. While trying my best to not look at, touch, smell, or otherwise interact with anyone or anything in the room, I noticed a vaguely wet feeling at my feet. I assumed it was just a little urinal splash-back, and took an adjustment step away, only to step DEEP into a warm puddle. Yup, warm. A quick examination of the room told me a pipe had backed up and the main drain was spitting back out a steady stream of human piss, leaving me to enjoy the sole-warming feeling of having a human urine collage flood around my mostly bare foot. AND THAT’S WHY YOU ALWAYS HOLD YOUR PISS NO MATTER WHAT.