The kids are all right

A few months ago, I had an opportunity to start a new stint at 720 California.

Much like the anticipation of seeing an old girlfriend, I wondered…would my cheeks remember the cool taste of 4^thFloor Men’s Room porcelain? (Yes, sometimes I lift the seat and sit right on the rim; the heart wants what the heart wants.)

It was like riding a bike. A sweet, sweet bike…that gathers up all your fecal waste and spirits it away. 

But I was also curious about my new poop-mates. In the time since I left, the denizens of 720 California had gotten younger and (ugh) healthier. I wondered if their impact on the facilities would be as, uh, dramatic as year’s past.

And at first, I was disappointed. My first months back, it appeared that millennial buttholes where, in fact, different. I assumed that all those years of having their butts wiped by mom and dad, well into their 20s, had turned their anus into a pristine field of dreams.

But then, in May, something happened. I walked in to 4^thFloor Men’s Room and smelled something horrific—a good old-fashioned 720 California assault on the senses. And sure enough, a look into the Peter Brady stall (that’s the middle one, new readers) confirmed the crime. A Jackson Pollack-esque splatter that gave me HOPE. 

In the subsequent months, my coworkers rallied like a team trying to make up a fourth quarter deficit. Stinks that should be labeled hate crimes. Full bowl blowouts. Under the seat danglers. Prolonged grunt sessions to get the devil out. In other words—the sites and sounds we have come to know and love from the 720 California men’s rooms. 

This generation is gonna be just fine, you guys. And whether that’s because of the green juices or the kale or their knowledge that social security will be insolvent well before they retire, their gastrointestinal distress is on par with the GenXers and the Boomers before them.

Poop on, young friends. Poop on.

Sometimes you want to poop where everybody knows your name

There's an old saying: "The heart knows when it's home."*

Well, so does the sphincter. 

Yesterday, this veteran potty blogger took a seat on an old friend--the toilet in the penthouse stall in the 4th floor men's room at 720 California.

And just like how your pupils dilate when you see a loved one from your past, my body had a similar response to sitting on the familiar plastic. (And I'm not talking about my pupils. You know what I'm referring to, right?)

It was like now time at all had passed. The give (me) and take (toilet) was as enjoyable as every--like two childhood besties at a reunion, laughing, completing each other's sentences, and reconnecting after a prolonged separation. 

What drew me back to my old stomping grounds? Nostalgia. Familiarity. Comfort. After all, just like that wise old TV-show taught us, "sometimes you want to poop where everybody knows your name."

Tomorrow is promised to no one, but I feel like there may be more opportunities for us to spend time together in the near future. I hope so. We have some catching up to do. And I'm anxious to learn how the men of 720 are treating my old pal. With the respect it deserves, I'm sure.

* Honestly, I have no idea whether this is an old saying or not. I made it up. 

Did you leave your balls in the men’s room?

Somebody did.

That is a ping-pong ball sitting up on the handicap rail of the penthouse stall.

First of all, this is INSANELY dangerous. Can you imagine the handi-abled gent who wheels into the stall and then tries to hoist himself onto the bowl using that rail and then his hand SLIPS on your carelessly-left-behind ping-pong ball?!? He could fall and paralyze himself! (If he’s not already paralyzed, of course.)

Second, which one of you ballers is carrying around your own ping-pong ball? And why?

Third, WHERE were you keeping that ball? Was it someplace where it needed to be removed before you could do your #2 business?

The lesson here: If you insist on keeping a ping-pong ball in your butt (no judgement) then please replace it before exiting the stall lest your double paralyze a co-worker.

Please don't wipe your butt with an old t-shirt

I wish I didn't have to write this, but evidence in the men's room this week suggests that it may be necessary. 

If you are making a number two and there is no toilet paper but there IS an old t-shirt lying around, you MAY be tempted to use that old t-shirt to wipe your butt. 

But think ahead, dear reader. Then what? What happens the second after you've cleaned yourself up? What do you DO with the t-shirt? 

So, thanks, thoughtful-co-worker-who-left-his-old-t-shirt-draped-over-the-handicap-bar but I think we'll be just fine without your v-neck. 

Watermelon anus?

This tip came in this morning from a faithful reader. It feels like important news to report.

This is what the future is going to be like friends: a world where you can make your dumps smell like anything you want. That's a world I WANT to live in.

Not sure if it's a pill or an attachment or what that gives you this super power, but sign Potty Blogger up for your beta test, please.

What. The. Fuck.

Listen, this is a blog about toilets and bodily functions. We've seen some things. We've talked about stuff you probably wouldn't share at the dinner table. In fact, some days you can get a little jaded, thinking you've seen it all.

“Do I even have the capacity to be shocked anymore?” a potty blogger thinks to himself.

And then...

Yesterday, I stumbled across a crime scene so hard to explain that it immediately slapped me back to the “ olden days” of this blog. When coworkers seemed to go out of their way to find new and creative ways to soil the porcelain.

It was first floor men’s room. (Yes, the one that no longer says “men” on the outside of the door but, rather, sports a cheeky set of painted “two low balls” to indicate “this one is for the fellas.”)

I headed to the penthouse stall for a quiet sit when I pushed back the door and saw it.

“Is that a large, wet caterpillar that has just pushed out of its cocoon and crawled up on the seat?” is how my brain first tried to make sense of what it saw.

But it was no caterpillar.

And this was no in-the-bowl remnant. This was an honest-to-goodness, proud-as-a-peacock, sitting-smack-dab-on-the-seat turd.

Many questions flooded forward.

Was it coworker’s silent protest? Or a cry for help?

Was it the rogue byproduct of an interviewee's nervous tummy?

And who, in god’s name, commits such a crime, stands, sees it and thinks, “Yeah, I’m just going to leave that there?”

Yes, I took a picture. (Mainly to confirm later that it was not some delirious fever dream, but that somebody actually left that baby on the shelf.) And the editorial staff here at 720-California-4th-floor-mens-room-dot-blogspot-dot-com debated long and hard about whether or not to include the photo along with this post.

But if we do that, the terrorist wins.

I don’t know who you are, first floor turd painter, but what you did was WRONG. This is not some art project and an office toilet seat is not a canvas for your fecal shenanigans.

Cut it out.

Cinnamon Urinal Cake

Hello, innovation!

The mens rooms at 720 California are enjoying a sweet new smell this week. Cinnamon urinal cakes.

It's like peeing into a bowl of Red Hots! So satisfying.

But be careful, men. For those of you who are more generously endowed, don't let your equipment dip down and make contact. Nobody wants a stick of Big Red in their urethra. (Trust me on this one.)

Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!

It's been a long, long time since potty blogger has written, dear readers.

So long that I began to wonder if anything would make me take up my pen again. Writing about the dumps of co-workers is a one-way ticket to jaded-ville, friends. Once you've seen the after effects of somebody shooting from their northern anus, nothing really shocks or inspires anymore.

But something wonderful has happened on 3rd floor.

Somebody has introduced a squatty potty to the stall of last resort.

Let me repeat that: a co-worker has purchased a piece of equipment designed to help open his colon and then left that piece of equipment permanently in place for all of his co-workers to also use and enjoy.

That guy for president of the world!

Thank you for your gift. Thank you for giving me a reason to write again. But most of all, thank you for giving my poops a silky smooth road home.

Soft launch

Yes, potty blogger is back to the important work of chronicling the poopin' and peein' of 720 California. But I return to this forum without fanfare. One long-time reader recently asked if there would be some sort of party to celebrate this blog's return.

No, there will not.

This is a soft launch. (Not to be confused with a particular type of loose stool that is known in some circles at "soft launch.") I am quietly re-acquainting myself with the sites and smells of this fine set of rest rooms.

Emphasis on the "quietly."

Just as the first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club, the first rule of 720California4thFloorMensRoom.blogspot.com is you do not approach potty blogger in a crowded office hallway and ask him if he's "seen the shit stain on four." 

And while an eye witness report that "there's a particularly gruesome deuce in the second floor Peter Brady stall" IS valuable information, that information is less welcome while potty blogger is in the middle of a conversation with his boss.

In other words: a little decorum, people. Keep those tips coming, but consider picking an appropriate moment. Lowering your voice. Or maybe an email? 

The illustration that accompanies this entry is from a long-time reader who suggested that the blog may want to consider a "kids corner" in the future. It's a wonderful suggestion and I will run by my editorial board. But in the meantime, I see nothing childish about a pencil taking a dump, so I share it with you, my mature adult readership.

Finally, another long-time reader confessed that she lost a SECOND iPhone to the toilets of 720 today. (Words with Friends is worse than heroin, friends. There are risks.)

I, for one, am proud to live in a world where I can play "JOY" for 34 points WHILE voiding myself at the same time. And if you have to replace a $500 phone every now and then for the privilege, so be it.

Hot water hosanna!

The mule train arrived from Tennessee and the new hot water heater is here!

That's right, friends...the fecal matter you've been carrying around underneath your fingernails for the last month can finally get a hot sanitary wash. (Although, there is a report that the new heater's, er, "pumper" may not be strong enough to get the hot stuff up to six. Which is a problem that older gentlemen water heaters have and it does not make them any less of a man water heater.)

But if you're on E, 1, 2, 3, 4, or 5, scrub 'em good, co-workers!

While "Hot Water Watch" comes to an end, "6th Floor Big Boy Urinal Watch" is now in it's fourth day.

On Friday, somebody put up a very nice sign indicating that 6th floor fellas should take their stand up business elsewhere. The sign is still up late on Monday, so I suspect 6th floor-ers may want to get used to the idea that the man-height plumbing will be out of commission for a while.

You know what they say: when god delivers a water heater he also breaks a urinal.

Your paper tongue says you hate me

Popped in to Second Floor Men's Room this afternoon to conduct some sit-down business. Made my way to the penthouse stall...and was confronted with an all-too familiar scene: a paper seat cover, sticking up out of a bowl full o' the yellow stuff, leering at me like an outstretched paper tongue.

Why?

Perpetrator, I have a hard time wrapping my brain around your psychology.

First, as evidence suggests, you sat down to conduct non-sit-down business. That's not a crime; we've all had the experience of warming up the kitchen appliances, thinking it was time to make pasta and then discovering that it was really more of a SodaStream afternoon.

And you're clearly not a barbarian since you used a seat cover.

So why would you stand, scoot the backside of your seat cover into your consommé, and then walk out without a flush?

The .08 seconds that a flush requires is a small way of saying, "I don't hate the poor sap who may wander in after me."

Why do you hate me? Why do you hate all of us? Do you need a hug?

Stick that paper tongue back into the mouth of hell and flush...so that the foul mouth swallows the tongue and...

OK, so the analogy breaks down at some point. Just flush next time, will ya?

Two hobos

Just overheard two hobos arguing outside of 720 California. First hobo suggests they go inside and ask the security guard if they can use the bathroom. Second hobo says, "They don't even have hot water in the bathrooms right now. THAT'S nasty."

Amen, well-informed hobo. Amen.

If we were a hospital, they'd have shut us down a week ago

OK. I get it. We're not doing brain surgery here.

But 10 days and counting with no hot water in the rest rooms? That ain't exactly a recipe for health.

We may not be at CONTAGION levels quite yet, but I did see a dude today who I thought just had hairy hands, but on closer inspection, the hair looked a little green and I thought, "that might just be a fungus crust."

Apparently the only water heater IN AMERICA that can supply this fine facility with hot water is still making its way here from Tennessee.

In the meantime, I urge you to completely wrap your hands in seat covers before conducting ANY business (yes, even business of a #1 variety.) The life you save could be your own.

Good morning, norovirus!

The first all-agency email of the day?

good morning.
hot water is off in all the bathroom sinks at 720.   kitchens and shower are still good to go.
we should be back online as early as tomorrow.
sorry for any inconvenience.

Yeah, hot water in the bathroom probably isn't all that important, is it? And directing people to rinse the urine and fecal residue off in the kitchen sink, a mere inches away from the surface where you'll be slathering up that peanut butter sandwich? That seems like a wonderful idea!

I've missed this level of hygiene.

Today, potty blogger will be washing his hands in the e-level shower, friends. 

Return to the throne

Yes, the rumors are true. Potty blogger is back in the building.

What’s truly wonderful about spending some time away from the bathrooms of 720 California is that when you return, you see them with fresh eyes.

And smell them with fresh nostrils.

Which brings me to my list of “The Top 3 Things That Surprised Me About Returning to the 4th Floor Men’s Room at 720 California.”

1. The New Smell of Freshness

There’s a whole new aroma bouquet up in this joint. In the last year, cans of Febreze have appeared on the bathroom counters (you can smell the cancer in the air!) and it’s clear that more than one person in the building is spritzing with abandon.

But the big upgrade are the lime green urinal splash guards that smell as if they were marinated in my grandmother’s potpourri bowl. They are so over powering that my knees buckled a bit while conducting some #1 business earlier this week.

My nose thanks you for the “progress.”

2. Clean Yo Shit Up

When a problem rises to the level of “I better get my ass to the trophy shop and have a sign made,” you know a line has been crossed.

I can only imagine how bad the stack of crumbled paper towels must have gotten to force the company to invest in these counter-top engravings.

The lack of capitalization and punctuation leaves me a little confused as how to read. Right now, it reads like a kid with turrets who doesn’t really want to yell at you and smiles a lot so he doesn’t seem like a dick…but he’s still kind of a dick.

3. Butthole-In-The-Middle-Of-His-Back Still Works Here 

I’m not sure if this is a source of comfort or horror.

For those of you who may not be familiar with this particular character, he is Potty Blogger’s Moby Dick--a pooping nemesis that did such unspeakable work, that he became a minor fascination.

His signature is a splatter pattern that suggests a physiology very different from you and I. While have never seen the creature in the wild, inspection of the evidence suggests that this man’s butthole is the middle of the back. It’s the only explanation for some of the things that I’ve seen.

There’s been quite a bit of turnover in the past 18 months at 720 California, so I assumed that this pooping-unicorn had probably moved on.

But yesterday, the third floor penthouse stall proved otherwise.

It's nice to know that the men's rooms of 720 California still have the power to shock.

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”?