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.