Poopin’ on the Ritz

Is there anything more intimate than making a number two?

It’s one of the most vulnerable things you can do by yourself and, understandably, people have strong feelings about where they make the magic.

Some of you prefer a specific floor. I’ve talked to several colleagues who swear that the only place they’ll sit down is in the second floor men’s room. “It just has a great ambiance,” says one. And another adds, “A lot of ladies sit on 2, so I don’t think it gets a lot of use. It feels...special when I make a poop in there.”

(I have been told that E level used to be a great place to conduct business. But given my recent experience down there, I have a hard time believing that.)

Most people also have a favorite stall. Some of you are penthouse people—you like the extra space that the big boy stall offers. Others prefer, the Peter Brady stall. (One gentleman who always goes for this middle chamber says, “I just like the way it makes me feel. There’s too much space in the big one.”)

I’m sure there is somebody in the building that likes the stall closest to the urinals. But since I call this one “the stall of last resort,” I’m not sure who you are or why you chose it. But hey...different strokes.

But recently I heard about a colleague’s potty preference that really made me tip my hat.

“I like to walk up and go at the Ritz.”

Bravo, sir. Don’t shit where you work. Take your business elsewhere. And not just anywhere...the fanciest toilet (see above) in a two-block radius. Wooden doors on the stalls. Marble counter tops. REAL towels (see below) with which to wipe your hands. A premium potty, to be sure.

(Of course, this assumes he meant here and not here.)

There is a story here

Sitting on the ground, next to the toilet in the fourth floor penthouse stall, is an empty Safeway shopping bag.

Who carried that bag into the stall? What was inside?

Food? If so, was it consumed during a business transaction? Is this an appropriate picnic spot?

A birthday card for mom? Was it signed and addressed in between pushes? Was the stamp licked before or after the session was completed?

Extra toilet paper? Just to be on the safe side?

Or maybe…just maybe...our bag man was concerned that the toilet would not be able to handle all he had to offer and he brought a bag in with him so that he could “pack out” any extra waste. The ultimate selfless act. But when he discovered that the bowl was able to handle his deposit, he left it behind for the next guy. Paying it forward.

If only that bag could talk.

Double red alert

This is not a drill.

I was just in third floor men's room and the penthouse stall is officially on double red alert status.

We're not talking about the stray, unexplainable remnant. We're in "my cup runneth over" territory.

I did not look into the eye of the storm for long for fear of losing my breakfast, but the quick glimpse suggested that the turds are about to jump over the porcelain wall and make a run for the door.

Stay clear of the area.

And if you are the chef that served up the meal that the toilet could not digest, you have a moral obligation to call facilities and report the crime. Be a man.

Disappointment lottery

Before noon on a Wednesday, and the toilet paper situation in the penthouse stall of the fourth floor men's room is looking bleak. (See photo left.)

Very good chance that someone this afternoon is going to come up high and dry.

If you are the unlucky winner, remember it is perfectly appropriate to say aloud, "Ah, man! Hello, is anyone there? Can you help a brother out with some toilet paper."

If you happen to be in the rest room and hear this plea, it is recommended that you do, in fact, help a brother out. It is NOT recommended that you enter the penthouse stall and hand said brother some TP nor should you offer to install a new roll while business is still being conducted.

The proper way to deliver the paper is to enter the Peter Brady stall, which is directly adjacent to the penthouse stall. Pull some toilet paper from the roll and ball it up. Throw the ball of TP over the wall and quickly back out of the stall.

Do NOT slip the wad of paper under the wall as this action may be misconstrued. Also, in general, keeping your hands as far away from the floor as possible is a good rule of thumb.

Good luck, men.

My E-level Vietnam

It’s been four days. But I’m still not sure if I’m ready to talk about it.

What I experienced last Friday in E-level’s men’s room changed me. Forever. And not in a good way.

I approached the door, ready for a quick pop-in. In general, E-level is not my first choice of facilities. With just one urinal and two business chambers, it feels vaguely un-American. Not enough choices, you know what I mean? But when a guy’s got to go...

When I opened the door, I descended into another world. It was like Lord of the Flies in there. Chaos. Anarchy. Unspeakable horror.

The penthouse stall had a library’s world of magazines strewn all over the floor. (Again, men, this is not a library.) I’m not talking about one or two sections of newspaper left behind...I’m talking stacks and stacks of magazines. It looked like somebody had been using the space to learn how to read.

The urinal was full to overflowing. And the color could best be described as “5th Floor Men’s Room Wall Color” which is not a shade associated with urinary tract health.

Then I found the turd.

It was in small stall and it dwarfed its surroundings. At first, I was concerned that someone had accidentally dropped their backpack into the toilet. Then it hit me: “That’s not a backpack.”

It appeared to be peeking up out of the bowl, head raised, daring me to come forward. “Who dares to enter my domain?” it seemed to say. “Not I,” I whispered and backed out of the stall.

But it was the smell that permeated the air that truly scared me. I did not know such smells existed in nature.

My mind raced to make sense of the experience. Perhaps a hobo wandered in off the street and into the E-level men’s room where he took his first real dump in three years.

But the smell was more than just the worst bathroom smell ever. It was something more.

I would not have been surprised to receive an all agency email on Monday saying, “Due to an incident last week, people are no longer allowed to keep human remains in their locker on E-level.”

Did I survive? Physically, yes. Emotionally, it’s going to be a long, long time before I recover.

If you or somebody you know is responsible for the crimes committed on E last Friday, I urge you to seek professional help immediately.

Penthouse alert

Heads up, men. Potty blogger was just in fourth floor men's room and it appears that a crime was recently committed in the penthouse stall. The splatter pattern suggests that the victim struggled.

If you are the perpetrator of this crime, you need to get yourself checked. Today. Call the doctor's office right now. Tell them it's an emergency.

Here's a clue: If you flush and the bowl still looks like a connect-the-dots puzzle, you are not OK.

Sometimes it takes two flushes

Potty blogger was at big-boy urinal today when he heard somebody finish his business in the penthouse stall and flush.

Then, a moment later, a second flush.

The gentleman exited the penthouse, saw potty blogger and said, "Sometimes it takes two flushes."

I'm betting that man is also good in the bedroom. Because he notices the little things. He is sensitive enough to say to himself, "Before I exit the business chamber, perhaps I should make a visual inspection of the bowl to confirm that my waste has been discarded."

"What's that? This toilet has not yet fully digested the meal I have provided? Well then, why don't I help it along with a second flush."

I salute you sir. You are an inspiration. Let us follow his lead, men.

Coincidence?

Ever notice how the closer toilet paper gets to the end of the roll, the more it looks like a nut sack?

It does.

Especially in fourth floor men's room. Something about the light brings out its hangin' brain-like qualities.

Coincidence? Or God's awesome plan? You decide.

Exhibit A: First floor men's room

A perfect example of the phenomenon described below is currently on display in first floor men's room.

This particular artist added his own special spin on it. The phrase "shotgun blast" comes to mind. And how, Picasso, did you paint UNDER THE SEAT??!?

This is a troubling way to start the weekend...

From whence black spot?

Yes, I have written about this phenomenon before, but that was when potty blogger was covering a different location. At the time, I thought it could be traced back to a particular individual who worked in that building--patient zero, as it were.

So imagine my surprise when I discovered the same telltale signs at 720 California fourth floor men’s room. I still have a hard time wrapping my brain around it.

I’m talking about walking into a stall, finding a bowl that has clearly been flushed, and yet, significant...remnants remain...three inches above the water line.

Three...inches...ABOVE...the water line.

Where the hell is that guy’s exit? Given my anatomy (which I assume to be standard issue) I would have to contort myself into some pretty interesting positions to...paint on that portion of the canvas.

If your chute is within spitting distance of your waistband, you need to get yourself checked, fellas. That ain’t right.

Smells like 6:37 p.m.

It's 3:12 p.m. but fourth floor men's room already smells like 6:37 p.m. Not a good sign.

This is not a library

Generous or disgusting? You be the judge.

Occasionally--and yesterday was one such occasion--somebody leaves a newspaper or magazine in the penthouse stall. Sometimes it’s thoughtfully draped over the handicap handrail but more often than not, it’s left on the floor.

Is a gift really a gift when it’s left on the floor of a men’s room?

Bonus points to yesterday’s giver for the subscription cards strewn about. Just in case somebody thought, “Goodness, I am thoroughly enjoying this issue of Forbes which has been marinating in my coworker’s fecal juices…I wish there was a convenient way to subscribe to this publication.”

What about it, men? Do you consider left-behind reading material an obstacle to be avoided or a welcome discovery?

Does the publications proximity to the bowl influence your willingness to pick it up?

Are there certain titles that you’re more likely to grab, no matter what? (“I don’t care how urine-soaked it might be, I never miss a chance to flip through FHM.”)

A report from the third floor

720california4thfloormensroom.blogspot.com is not about a single location. It’s really more of a state of mind. A way of seeing the world. In that spirit, we will cover the goings-on in other men’s rooms in the building.

Today’s destination: third floor men’s room. If fourth floor men’s room is Hawaii, then third floor men’s room is Beirut.

First of all, there is the flickering light bulb. It gives third floor men’s room kind of a coroner’s lab vibe. It’s dim and the incessant tap-tap-tap of the fixture trying to light prevents any quality “alone time.” It doesn’t matter if they replace the bad bulb; another always picks up the baton.

Second, we go to the wall color. “Asphyxiation blue” according to the label.

But THE distinguishing feature of third floor men’s room is that big-boy urinal is a no-hands auto-flush while little-man urinal remains a manual flush.

Unfortunately, it appears that a large number of third floor men’s room patrons are visually impaired, because nobody seems to realize that a manual flush is required on the little-man urinal. The result is piss potpourri (literally “rotten pot” in French)--a stagnant trough of urine that gives third floor men’s room that mmmmm-delicious bus stop smell.

Let us take a vow together, men: I will use my hand to flush the little-man once I am done with my #1 business.

No, it won’t solve all of the problems of third foor men’s room, but baby steps, guys. Baby steps.

(Just in case some of you don’t know the difference between auto and manual plush, here is a handy visual guide. Print it out. Put it in your wallet. Be Safe.)