And so we come to the end

Dear readers, after three years roaming the hallowed halls of 720 California, Potty Blogger is clocking out and moving on to a new place of employment.

It has been a privilege to serve you during this time.

This blog has pointed out the obvious, introduced new vocabulary, helped reduced the volume of stall emailing, and even inspired pilgrims to make the journey to our fair headquarters.

But most of all, it has been about community. The common bond that occurs when a group of people see something mysterious in a men’s room and think, “Is a human being really responsible for that?”

Did we accomplish everything we hoped? No. There is still no bidet on the fourth floor. And we never did get a toilet with the incredible sucking power of this little baby. But I like to think that together, we made beautiful music together.

I bid you farewell. The whole blog is yours to continue to explore and enjoy, but here are some of my favorites posts from the past three years.

10. The ol' switcheroo

9. What the hell is THAT?

8. I need you to suck more and tumble less

7. Please close the gates of hell behind you

6. I am not now, nor have I ever been, a turd burglar

5. Soundtrack etiquette

4. Fourth floor makes a statement

3. Black (and Brown) Tuesday

2. Front loader

1. My E-level Vietnam

Executive hands, rejoice!

Luxury has arrived at 720 California and of course its first stop is Fourth Floor Men’s Room.

When you think about it, it’s kind of amazing that the baby-like skin of executive hands was ever subjected to the coarse and clumsy paper towel. But now that has been remedied once and for all with the installation of the Dyson Airblade.

Plan a field trip to fourth floor. Snap a picture of the amazing technology. But don’t linger too long--important hands need dryin’.

Jack Nicholson spotted in third floor men's room

ALERT: Turd on the Loose

Just received the following email: "Inconceivable crime scene, handi stall on 4."

I grabbed my reporter's notebook and headed in.

It appears that a turd crawled out of the penthouse bowl (leaving half of its body wedged under seat, it's "legs" dangling off the edge of the bowl) then dropped to the floor, scooted across the tile into the Peter Brady stall, shimmied up the edge of that bowl and then dropped itself into the neighboring toilet.

* THIS IS A DEVELOPING STORY

A very particular brand of hygiene

First floor men’s room is a hit-or-miss proposition. Steps from the lobby, it’s usually in pretty good shape since it has that “we want to make a good impression on our guests” thing going for it.

But it’s also the bathroom of choice for nervous-tummy job applicants. And the pre-interview deuce is not a friendly deuce.

Yesterday, the first floor penthouse stall provided a strange glimpse at one person’s particular brand of hygiene—a single paper towel left on the seat.

What sort of OCD makes a person say, “I can’t make a poopie unless there is a thin barrier of paper towel between my left buttock and the toilet seat”?

The fourth floor makes a statement

The poopers on four are not going down without a fight.

It’s almost as if somebody read our last blog entry about third floor and E-level vying for the title of “most vile” and decided that fourth floor, as the namesake of this blog, needed to get back into the mix.

Yesterday, they did so in a big way.

It started when a co-worker appeared at my office door, his face ashen and his voice shaky.

“Have you seen it?”

“Seen what?” I asked.

“Fourth floor. Penthouse stall. I can’t...”

His voice trailed off. He shook his head and shuffled away. He looked broken.

I grabbed my reporter’s notebook and headed in.

When I opened the door, there was an eerie silence. I was surprised not to walk into a wall of smell. Usually, when a tipster alerts me to a “must see” crime scene, you can pretty much tell what you’re going to see as soon as you open the door. But this was something else. Something more...mysterious.

I walked slowly toward the penthouse stall, my footsteps echoing in the empty(?) men’s room. The door to the stall was almost closed, but I could tell that it was not latched. I tapped it gently with my foot and it creaked open.

“What the hell happened here?”

The toilet was gagged with toilet seat covers—a bouquet of 20 or more, shoved in to the toilet as if to hold back the fires of hell. This was not neat work. The paper was crumpled and matted and showed signs of panic.

Strewn about the floor were another dozen toilet seat covers. Fallen solders. Some pristine and others mangled.

In the corner, a clutch of ten covers, huddled together. Almost as if they’d crawled into the corner to stay warm before expiring in a heap of dead tissue.

And the toilet seat cover holder? Still one or two sticking out of the cardboard, but the edges were jagged and torn. Like a pulpy flesh stump, fresh from an emergency amputation.

My eye went down to the toilet paper rolls. Surely this carnage was an act of desperation--a man who found himself without any other option and called upon the toilet seat covers as a last line of defense. But no...two relatively full rolls of toilet paper sat there, untouched. Mocking.

I stepped closer to the bowl and quickly realized that down at the roots of this tissue butt-plug was a dark and unhealthy chocolate brew. I backed away.

What kind of madness posses a man in his dark hour of need? Yesterday, we got our answer.

3 vs. E

Given the number of new employees at 720 California and the corresponding increase in readership, the staff here would like to address a common misconception about this blog.

This blog is NOT just about what happens in the fourth floor men’s room. Nay, this blog embraces the culture of ALL the restrooms at 720 California. It’s a state of mind rather than a destination.

In fact, if the international war crimes tribunal could only select one 720 California men's room to put on trial for crimes against humanity, they would have difficult time choosing between 3rd floor and E-level.

Both offer numerous examples of depravity and human suffering.

Third floor men’s room is the home toilet for a profoundly unhealthy workforce that does not know how to flush. It may also be the toilet of choice for a the Big Mac'r himself AND a co-worker that has the ability to shit out of his front. (Unless, god forbid, that is the work of the same mythical creature.) The walls are also a nauseating color, but that’s a little like criticizing the drapes a crime scene.

On the other hand, E-level is the scene if some of the most horrific dumps ever viewed ("...that's not a backpack") and I'm still convinced that there is a corpse rotting in one of the lockers by the door. And there's the ever-present danger that you might get pancaked into the (sole!) urinal by an eager pee-er quickly rounding the corner.

I give the slight edge to E-level based on two factors: the 24-hour "always open for business" schedule and the fact that lunch is regularly delivered to all who work on that floor.

Fire fighters know that a any blaze with a readily available fuel source and plenty of time to burn is a dangerous combination. That, my friends, is E-level in a nutshell.

Short toots

* Thanks to the mobile phone force member who texted Potty Blogger to let him know that a pair of dirty bike shorts were on the floor of the fourth floor men's room. (The tag in said shorts says "child's medium," suggesting that they belong to a certain partner whose name is on the building.)

* The big stall? You can call it "corner office" if you'd like, but we refer to it as "the penthouse" on this blog. Vive la difference!

* To the serial "chocolate sprinkler" who seems to be a new regular in third floor penthouse stall--we admire the precision of your craft. It's almost like you are gluing individual nuggets by hand, but of course that can't be the case. Can it?

* "Weak Tea" - a turdlet that has been left to brew in an otherwise clean bowl. (Full turds and a longer soak can lead to "strong coffee.")

* Remember to give a quick look, men. When you stand up, if any part of the seat is smudged with a brown substance, it's probably not chocolate cake. Do the next guy a favor and wipe down gym equipment for the next guy, OK?

* Thanks to the reader who recently recounted the tale of a friend whose "square fart" could not escape his round anus and had to be manually dissipated by an emergency room doctor. I don't know if this is true or what it has to do with the men's rooms at 720 California, but it's a magnificent story.

I need you to suck more and tumble less

Here at 720 California, certain toilets on certain floors have long had difficulty digesting a full “meal.”

But with a recent hiring explosion, something has happened to the water pressure in the building. When you add another 200 poopers into the mix, even the most robust plumbing system is bound to shudder under new demands.

As a result, the toilets in the stalls have developed a new coping mechanism--to give the appearance of function, they have adopted a tumbling regimen where once they sucked and swallowed.

This results in some odd creations.

For example, just yesterday, after a bit of business in the penthouse stall, I grabbed some toilet tissue, cleaned up and tossed it in the bowl. But when I hit flush, it did not suck the contents into the bowels of the plumbing system. Rather, it tumbled my turdlets and the wad of toilet paper into a cyclone, mashing them together in what can only be described as an everlasting gobstobber of shit. (See above photo.)

As fascinating (and oddly beautiful) as that is, the toilet’s job really isn’t to create fecal art projects, but to dispose of waste.

Three flushes later, I said goodbye to the gobstobber and left a fresh bowl for the next visitor.

Building superintendent, if you are a reader of this blog, please consider turning your knobs and dials to give our toilets a little more suck and a little less tumble.

Please close the gates of hell behind you

The struggle over bathroom soundtrack etiquette is well documented on this blog.

Out of respect for your co-workers, do you clench and try to minimize the amount of butt music during a #2 session? Or do you let fly, believing that you are entitled to anally whistle any tune you’d like during your time in the saddle?

It is, as they say, a personal decision.

But one thing that we can all agree on—the sounds of the men’s restroom should really be contained in the men’s restroom. But that’s difficult when a co-worker decides that the doorway to said men’s room is the best spot for an impromptu meeting.

Let me explain.

I was recently ensconced in the penthouse stall on three, working on a particularly troublesome bit of business. (Damn you taco truck!) Upon entering the men’s room, I had noticed several colleagues congregated around the door (a strange location to “hang out,” to be sure) but knew that the door itself provided a modicum of protection to all parties.

Mid deuce, I heard a co-worker open the door and, standing in the transom, begin a conversation with one of the gaggle outside.

My instinct to protect the innocent kicked in, I instructed my body to “cork it,” assuming that the chatty co-worker was simply making quick small talk and that he would close the door behind him so that he could conduct his own business.

I was wrong.

The co-worker began an extended conversation about a work/client thingy. I can’t tell you the details of this critical convo; the act of corkage takes a measure of concentration that prohibited me from fully listening. But I do know that the door remained fully open, potentially exposing my siren call to the entire third floor.

Thirty seconds passed. Then a minute. Somebody squeezed past him, did some urinal business and left—and yet the conversation continued.

A good three minutes later, I was just about to yell out “fire in the hole!” when the co-worker wrapped up his very important meeting and moved into the stall of last resort for a little quality time himself.

This is not OK, men. Talk inside. Talk outside. But pick a lane.

Fortunately, I was able to complete my transaction, wash up and leave. And while I was tempted to grab the trash can out of the kitchen and prop open the door so my co-worker could experience a taste of his own medicine, I suspect that the gesture would have lost on him.

Let’s keep those doors closed, men. Danger lurks within.

Front loader

Over the years, the men’s restrooms at 720 California have been home to the mysterious (the backpack that was not a backpack), the confusing (where is that guy’s anus?), and the assaultive (a smell you can see.)

In this game you can become jaded. There’s a temptation to think that you’ve seen it all.

But then, mankind surprises you.

Apparently, one of my co-workers can crap out of his wang.

That’s the only way I can make sense of doo-doo on the front lip and underside of the toilet seat.

Yes, we have seen evidence on the front half of the bowl before. In that instance, our intrepid readers helpfully suggested that the culprit probably pulled a “reverse cowgirl” on it.

But this is something else all together.

This seems to be the work of a high-pressure nozzle producing a continuous stream. That stream then meandered up the front edge of the bowl, under the lip of the seat, and then burst forth with a final frosting on the top of the rim.

In other words, this guy seems to be able barf caca out of his penis.

We are through the looking glass, friends. I have no words of advice how to live in this brave new world.

There is a front loader among us. All hail, front loader.

Hello, Peeper

When conducting your #2 business at work, what is the one article of faith? The thing that you can count on unequivocally?

Is it, "While I'm sitting here expelling solid waste from my body, I can be reasonably sure that the walls will not open up next to me so that some stranger is eye level with my bare ass cheeks."

Well, you would be wrong.

Twice. TWICE in the last month, I have been in the penthouse stall, minding my own business (literally) when the toilet paper dispenser next to me SWUNG OPEN at the aforementioned ass level so that some unseen janitorial hand could replace the toilet paper.

And on one such occasion, the peeper also got a pretty good look at my tiles in a Words with Friends game I was working on. (This is safe zone, friends. No judgment for multi-taskers.)

So beware, friends. The very WALLS are not to be trusted. Privacy is dead.

Either my company employs a guy that can create the brownest, thickest lougies ever made...

or else somebody took a dump in the big boy urinal on three.

A foul stew

Happy New Year, dear readers. Sorry for the hiatus. Back in the saddle at 720. Literally.

A frightful scene to start the day in the third floor penthouse stall. Usually, an early morning stop in the big boy stall is an unmitigated joy--a freshly cleaned canvas, plenty of room to stretch out, and no waiting.

But this morning, a foul stew waited. And while I did not make careful inspection, I would guess that it was mainly beef and not a lot of vegetables. Maybe a potato or two.

It’s a new year and there are lots of new bottoms roaming the halls, so let us reiterate common courtesy rule #1 here at 720—once you have completed your business, turn and inspect the bowl, if there is anything in there but crystal clear water, flush. Repeat as necessary until the bowl is completely clear.

I wish that was the worst of it, but less than an hour later, I found myself back in third floor men’s room and, apparently, something had died in there in the intervening hour. And whatever “thing” that had passed, my nose suggested that it had voided itself completely before uttering its final breath and that it was also on some sort of rapid decomposition progression.

Anyhoo, men. It’s a new year. Let’s remember that colon health is not only a gift to yourself, it’s a gift to your coworkers.