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.

Too warm. Too intimate.

It’s happened to all of us. You sit down to start your business and find the seat is still warm from the previous occupant. (And not the good kind of warm.)

Sure, it’s a little creepy, but you deal.

But I had an incident recently that made me realize that a little bit of knowledge changes the whole equation.

I was heading into the men’s room and approached the stalls. As I did, a colleague exited the penthouse stall and said hello. I exchanged pleasantries and then had to make a quick decision which stall to enter.

Normally, with three opens stalls, it’s a no-brainer: I go for the penthouse. But in that split second, I thought, “I don’t really want to sit in his warmth. Too intimate.”

And so, I made an immediate left turn and ducked into the Peter-Brady stall.

Apparently, ignorance is an important quality in sharing a bathroom with co-workers.