Potty blogger believes that a clean mouth is a healthy mouth. I have a toothbrush in my office and, on occasion, I use it.
But yesterday, when I entered the men’s room on third floor for a quick scrub of the pearly whites, it smelled so bad I was actually concerned about the health risks of opening my mouth.
Is it even safe to brush your teeth in such an environment? Can an odor actually eat away enamel?
To be honest, there are times when I don’t even want to open my pants in here.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Looking for a newspaper?
Yes, spreading it out so that I can read multiple sections without having to pick it up is a nice touch, but this is still not a library.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Friday, June 12, 2009
The case for a bidet
We need a bidet in this building.My suggestion? Let’s remove the toilet from the Peter Brady stall on four and put a bidet in there.
There are already 20 men’s room stalls in the building. And aside from the infamous “Homemade Chili Day” in 2005, there has never been a time when all 20 have been in use at the same time.
Can we not spare one stall for a premium potty experience? A small luxury to promote derriere health?
And four is the perfect floor for it--the guys whose names are on the building sit on that floor and the men’s room has high-quality, executive washroom feel to it. But it’s accessible to schmos like you and me.
Will a bidet solve all our problems? Of course not. As has been documented on this blog many, many, many times, there are some profoundly broken people in this building. A bidet will not help them. Taking a power sprayer to their undercarriage probably wouldn’t help them.
A bidet is for the rest of us. The common man. The every day dumper who just wants to get clean down there. To feel fresh.
Let us unite in this cause, men. We deserve it.
Yet another reason that second floor is the best men's room in the building
Auto-flush. In every stall. That is luxury, people.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Ladies mark their territory
A female reader sent the following photo. Apparently, this sign is posted in the ladies penthouse stall on E level.
It looks like the ladies of E made wanted to encourage visitors to dump on their own floor. (As we all know, E level is a favorite hit-and-run location.) But some smart gal with a pen is encouraging a protest.
It looks like the ladies of E made wanted to encourage visitors to dump on their own floor. (As we all know, E level is a favorite hit-and-run location.) But some smart gal with a pen is encouraging a protest.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Black (and brown) Tuesday
Something very VERY bad happened in the third floor men’s room yesterday afternoon.
A co-worker came to me with tears in his eyes. Another emailed with the subject line “something died.” A third was so distraught, all he could do was shake his head and point.
Naturally, I had to investigate.
What I found made the Saw movies look like Mary Poppins. It was the bathroom version of torture porn. It made me yearn for the salad days of my E-level discovery.
Within the first two seconds, I realized that if I stayed in there longer than a minute, I was going to throw up.
How to describe the odor? Imagine a corpse, soaked in pickle juice. That corpse is then eaten by a dog who poops it out. That poop is eaten my another dog who then barfs it into a jar of rotten eggs. That jar is then sealed for a thousand years. At the end of that thousand years, the jar is heated up over a methane gas plume. The jar is then opened and the contents are spread on crackers made out of diseased goat pancreas.
It smelled a little like that...only turned up to 11.
Any sane person would have run screaming. But I had to look. I had to see for myself.
What I saw was so foul there is really no way to describe it in a family blog like this. Lets just say that the mystifying splatter pattern that has so thoroughly puzzled me in the past had migrated to the floor and wall. The bowl in the Peter Brady stall was overflowing with filth and, evidence suggested, the contents had made a run for it, hopped to the ground, run up the wall and into the penthouse stall where it proceeded to fill that bowl too.
If you are responsible for any aspect of what took place in third floor men’s room yesterday afternoon GET YOURSELF TO A HOSPITAL. I'm not trying to be funny and I'm not kidding. You are physically and emotionally broken. You need help.
A co-worker came to me with tears in his eyes. Another emailed with the subject line “something died.” A third was so distraught, all he could do was shake his head and point.
Naturally, I had to investigate.
What I found made the Saw movies look like Mary Poppins. It was the bathroom version of torture porn. It made me yearn for the salad days of my E-level discovery.
Within the first two seconds, I realized that if I stayed in there longer than a minute, I was going to throw up.
How to describe the odor? Imagine a corpse, soaked in pickle juice. That corpse is then eaten by a dog who poops it out. That poop is eaten my another dog who then barfs it into a jar of rotten eggs. That jar is then sealed for a thousand years. At the end of that thousand years, the jar is heated up over a methane gas plume. The jar is then opened and the contents are spread on crackers made out of diseased goat pancreas.
It smelled a little like that...only turned up to 11.
Any sane person would have run screaming. But I had to look. I had to see for myself.
What I saw was so foul there is really no way to describe it in a family blog like this. Lets just say that the mystifying splatter pattern that has so thoroughly puzzled me in the past had migrated to the floor and wall. The bowl in the Peter Brady stall was overflowing with filth and, evidence suggested, the contents had made a run for it, hopped to the ground, run up the wall and into the penthouse stall where it proceeded to fill that bowl too.
If you are responsible for any aspect of what took place in third floor men’s room yesterday afternoon GET YOURSELF TO A HOSPITAL. I'm not trying to be funny and I'm not kidding. You are physically and emotionally broken. You need help.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)