How to Go to the Bathroom without Being a Total Dick About It

Dear Asshole Toilet-Squatting Women,

Stop it!

Seriously!

It is high time for you grown ass women to just knock this shit off and take a seat.  There are no hungry sewer alligators lurking in toilet bowls.  Especially if, like me, you live in Utah.  We don’t even have any alligators here.  Unless you count the two in the zoo (or is it three….hmmmm.)  Come to think of it, we don’t have much of a sewer system to sustain much reptilian life.  Certainly not the palatial subterranean water works commonly featured in Ron Perlman vehicles (Hell Boy, Beauty and the Beast, City of Lost Children.)  Your juicy buttocks are safe from repto-amphibious attacks from the deep.

Sewer AlligatorsAnd contrary to what our incompetent school sex ed curricula may lead you to believe, you cannot get pregnant from a toilet seat.  If you could, we would have heard about it by now from Wendy Williams.  Plus, Maury Povich’s baby daddy episodes would be much less mundane.  “Carissa, in the case of baby Xstaci, the second stall toilet at the Wendy’s bathroom inside the Cheyenne Chevron IS your baby’s daddy.”

On a similar note, the CDC has issued precisely zero alerts on the catastrophic rates of toilet herpes.  That is because herpes germs are wimps and their survival on the rim of a toilet bowl is about as likely as a naked Neil Armstrong’s chances on the moon.  Besides, the level of intimacy you and said toilet seat would achieve before you’d need to check in for an STD test does not bear consideration.  If that is the fetish you’re in to, keep it between yourself and the duke of dookie.

So what is it then that keeps you from sitting the fuck down and using the goddam toilet like the rest of us?  Is your ass so special that it must only touch virgin porcelain?  Have you had it’s flesh surgically replaced with leather fashioned from the ears of two-day old albino lambs?  Is your derriere by Cartier?  Just sit the fuck down!

Or if you insist on squatting, at least do what most 5 year old boys have already mastered and lift the Christing toilet seat.  I’m not concerned about you remembering to put the seat back down, trust me.  That’s just a dick move men do to remind us that the goals of feminism have not yet been realized.

So my final plea to my squatting sisters is to entreat you, if squat you must, could you at least not squat in the handicapped stall?  It’s a real slap in the face and a fine fuck you too for those of us unsquatables.  You’re so concerned about your own silk-lined backside, have you failed to realize that the rest of us don’t consider it a treat to sit down in your backsplash.  Never yet have I seen the golden backsplash of even the saintliest of urine streams cure so much as a hang nail let alone heal  the paraquats or feeble-limbed.  No good can come of your failure to simply wipe the fucking seat off.  Save the miracles for church, not the public restroom of the local megaplex.  I always have to pee after a two hour movie and my artificial knees and hips can’t take squatting without going down like the bridge over the River Kwai.  And when that inevitable fall comes, I don’t need to splash down in your leftovers.

Respectfully,

The cripple with your pee all over her ass.

 

These Are a Few of the Best Fucking Things Ever

It’s on obscenely cold, gray days like this that I like to take a nice chilly, deep breath in and take stock of all the nice little modern conveniences that make life bearable.  Things like central heating, fleece lined leggings, and maple and brown sugar oatmeal packets.

If you have never stopped to think about the joy that is central heating, congratulations!  For one has never known true suffering until one has opened one’s fridge only to  be blasted with what feels like a gust of warm air.  Yes, when one’s milk and Lunchables are cozier than one’s own self one can only surmise the slumlord has turned off the furnace again.  Such was the case with the first apartment my husband and I shared.  In an effort to save money, our landlord would simply turn off the furnace and then insist it was broken and he was waiting for a part to ship.  With all four burners of our gas range at full bore and the oven set to 750 degrees Kelvin we called the slumlord to report if the “part” didn’t arrive soon we’d be taking a page from Tom Waits’s album and tear up the floorboards in the living room to cook us up a box-spring hog.  Within an hour the furnace was miraculously fixed.

Sadly, these early days of discomfort predated the arrival of my second favorite cold-weather comfort, fleece lined leggings.  Legging technology has made more advances in the past three decades than the NASA space program.  Recently, I found my old 80s leggings and having put them on quickly remembered why I had stopped wearing leggings for two decades.  Made of a strange combination of poly-cotton blend and unyielding spandex, these leggings glide on with the ease of chain-mail over fish scales.  After an hour the spandex usually decides to go out for a smoke break leaving the crotch sagging down to the kneecap in a grand mpdanceimpression of Dick Van Dyke’s penguin dance from Mary Poppins.  Now I understand why Batman and Superman always wore their undies OVER their poorly made leggings.  Today’s leggings, however, seem to be made of the same stuff as Rebecca Romijn (no-longer Stamos)’s Mystique costume from X Men.  AND they now come LINED WITH FLEECE!  If you have never enjoyed the sensual caress of body-hugging fleecy leggings…well you are probably a very hairy man that hates the way it tugs at your leg hair like velcro.  Either that or you are one of those self-righteous busy bodies who don’t think leggings are pants.  Guess what?  They are, by definition, pants.  Check your sources and then deal with your irrational fear of the female body cuz you are missing out on the singular best piece of women’s fashion ever created!

But perhaps the best ever modern day cold-weather convenience out there is the maple and brown sugar instant oatmeal packet.  Anyone who hates mornings as much as I do but still feels the need to oh I don’t know….EAT understands the appeal of instant oatmeal.  For those of you uninitiated, I share the following recipe.  You will want to start this the night before to save on prep work and clean up and give you those extra 30 seconds in bed tomorrow morning.  The cat will thank you.

  • Pour contents of one packet maple/brown sugar instant oatmeal into travel mug.
    • I recommend a travel mug that has not gone through the dishwasher as this causes the vacuum seal to break leading to chunky leaks.
  • Throw away packet.
  • Let sit overnight
  • In the morning, add 1/3 cup  hot coffee to dry ingredients. (that’s more than the instructions call for)
  • Shake like hell.  This is where you are really going to test that vacuum seal.

And viola!!  A delicious oatmeal maple latte!

“But Psarah,” you ask, “can’t I use apple cinnamon or cinnamon raisin?”

My answer is a resounding fuck NO!

  • Apples and raisins taste fucking terrible in coffee.  (Jesus, people!  Standards!)
  • Choking hazard.
  • I find they clog up my crazy straw.  As I usually drink this on my way in to work, I find a crazy straw to be a necessary safety precaution.  Hands at 10 and 2 people!  Not 12 and coffee cup!  Save a life.  Invest in a crazy straw.

Add this delicious recipe to your morning routine and tell me it doesn’t put an extra pep in your step.  After all, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  Start treating yourself right and take those extra 30 seconds to optimum health.  You’ll be glad you did.