Thursday we read from your letters...

Potty blogger's inbox was overflowing this week with stories, observations and photos from you, the loyal readers.

The reader who sent the email with the subject line “2-foot long colon buster in stall number 1,” you should know that I did not open the zip file full of photos. I’ve said it before and I’ll say again--we don’t publish inside-the-bowl photography. It’s not that kind of a blog.

(The one exception to the rule: if business is discovered in an unusual location—the sink, for example—well, now that’s news. When man bites the dog, you cover it.)

One reader emailed the photo above, showing a pretty dire situation--a double roll failure in the penthouse stall late in the day. It’s a cautionary tale and a good reminder to look before you leap. If you do find yourself post-session and discover yourself without resources, seat covers are an emergency options. Or you can call for help.

Here’s a letter from one straight-talking reader:

“As I was pissing, a person was crapping. I finished pissing and went to the sink to wash up. As I approached the sink, the crapper flushed. The crapper walked by me, gave me the ‘what’s up?’ head nod and said something I didn’t catch, and walked out. Without washing his hands. Thought you should know.”

Men, we’ve talked about this before. Washing your hands should be standard operating procedure. Especially after making the poops.

There was this short and sweet gem:

“There’s no toilet brush. I find that problematic.”

Problematic, eh Mr. OCD? I mean, I like a clean bowl as much as the next guy, but do I need a brush on standby so I can scrub that sucker to a fine shine before I soil it? Probably not. Now a plunger near the toilet...that’s something I can get behind.

Here's another:

“For the retard throne on 3 (A.K.A. the only one anyone wants to use), who is the fat ass who keeps dislodging the seat cover with their mammoth ass cheeks, thus putting us skinny people at risk of falling in when the now-broken throne cover shifts mid-movement?”

Wow. Where to begin with this one?

The penthouse stall is not the “retard throne.” It is a handicap stall designed for people with physical challenges who need a little extra space.

Second, while the penthouse stall is popular, it is not “the only one anyone wants to use,” as has been covered in a previous posting. For example, some men prefer the warm embrace of the Peter Brady stall.

Third, what your are calling the “seat cover” is actually “the seat.” The seat cover” is the white tissue paper that you put down on top of the “the seat” to protect your genitals from absorbing the bacteria left behind by other guy’s genitals. (The fact that you don’t know the difference between the two says everything I need to know about you.)

Fourth, we get it. You’re skinny. Congratulations. Some guys inherited a larger frame from their parents or maybe they have a glandular problem, but that does not mean that they are hell-bent on the destruction of potty property. To suggest otherwise is slanderous and mean spirited.

Finally, we received this from a female reader who, with this, may have earned herself a spot as this blog’s lady correspondent:

“You should know that the ladies of 720 California are here to represent. The other day, I came across a confusing contribution in the ladies room. A monster was poking up above the water line, resting its head on the porcelain like a seal on the rocks. No toilet paper in sight. Did she even try to flush? And if so, did it take the toilet paper but not the deposit? The toilet is like a mailbox, ladies—after you drop your letter in, you check to make sure that it’s gone all the way down.”

Good advice, sister. Good advice.

At least two kinds of wrong

This just in from the third floor penthouse stall.

Where to begin?

First of all, I guess you have to give a guy props for using a seat cover. (As we've discussed, not everybody does.) But the seat cover is a one-time-use product, my friend. When you're done with your business, discard the seat cover.

This is usually handled with a simple flush. That's what the punch out in the middle is for--think of it as a rope that helps pull the tissue, which is now damp with your butt sweat, into the plumbing below.

If a flush is not sufficient to dislodge your seat cover, help a brother out, give it a quick peel and try again. Yeah, it's a little gross to handle the tissue, but it's no less gross for the next guy. In fact, I think we can all agree, it's significantly MORE gross for the next guy.

Second, I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to finish up your Nantucket Nectar while in the saddle, but that space behind the bowl is not a designated recycling area.

Chicken and waffles warning

Apparently, a large contingent from the office indulged in chicken and waffles for lunch today.

As a result, no bathroom on any floor is safe this afternoon. Proceed with extreme caution.

Soundtrack etiquette

As mentioned in my last entry, loyal readers have not been shy about suggesting topics for this blog. Without a doubt, the number one request has been to cover what I call “soundtrack etiquette.”

The bathroom soundtrack is rich and complicated genre.

At one end of the spectrum, it includes the subtle hey-there’s-somebody-in-one-of-the-stalls audio cues you give when you hear the bathroom door open. Potty Blogger is partial to the exaggerated cough, throat-clear or loud sniff. But I knew a guy once who thought subtlety was overrated and would proudly exclaim “fire in the hole!” when he heard somebody enter.

At the other end of the spectrum (literally) is what I call “butt music.” Now let’s be clear: this is a sub-genre about which there are strong feelings and much debate.

Some believe that such tunes do not deserve an audience. Those people, also known as “the clenchers,” will do almost anything to make sure that nary a peep emits from their stall while someone else is in the bathroom. One colleague recently told me that he takes a fork into the stall with him so that he can stab himself in the thigh if he needs to stifle his orchestra.

But others are equally passionate in their belief that this music is the most beautiful and natural music a person can make. They do not want to hide their light, but rather, share it with the world.

When these people perform, they seem to be saying, “Hey, my time in the saddle is my time. I let myself go 100 percent. If that involves squeaks, wheezes, and toots, and you happen to hear it, so be it. Enjoy the symphony, baby.”

A healthy respect for your colonic instrument is one thing, but there are certainly some who take this point-of-view to an unhealthy, exhibitionist extreme. We’ve all found ourselves in a stall next to one of these guys--the ones who grunt, and struggle and emit sounds more commonly associated with the slaughterhouse than the business chamber. We get it, Tchaikovsky--you’re a musical prodigy with your ass flute. Bravo.

Let us all remember that musical tastes vary. One man’s gag-inducing bun warbler is another man’s symphony. Vive la difference!

Some suggestions

There are certain occupational hazards that come with potty blogging.

For example, it forces you to pay attention to some pretty gruesome crime scenes. Do I want to look into a bowl that looks like it hasn’t been flushed since 2008? No. But if I don’t look into that abyss, who will tell the tale?

One unfortunate side effects of the blog is that a certain number of loyal readers have discovered my true identity are constantly suggesting topics.

“There’s a major deuce in the handicap stall. You should check it out.”

“You gonna do an entry about the super dark pee on three?”

“Yesterday, guy in the stall next to me muttered ‘help me’ while squeezin’ one out. I can give you his name if you want to write about it.”

These are all wonderful suggestions. Thank you. It’s gratifying to know that so many share my passion for the pageantry of our restrooms. But perhaps shouting ideas across a crowded office is not the best venue for an editorial pitch.

Let me introduce you to the comment section on this blog. Think if it as your tip line. You can post anonymously and I read all of them.

While we’re on the topic of suggestions, let me make one myself: wash your hands, men.

Today, I saw a colleague--somebody whom I respected--finish his business and head straight for the door.

Now, I’ve heard all the excuses, the most common one being: “I just went number one and only touched my front. If I washed my hands every time I touched Mr. Lincoln, I’d be at the sink all day.”

Men, making a number one is not a free pass from hand washing. If you’ve done anything in the men’s room, let a session at the sink be your final act. They put the basins by the door for a reason: to remind you that you should use them on your way out.

As for my disgusting colleague, who shall remain nameless, I shamed him into washing his hands. This time. But I am not on patrol 24/7. You have to police yourselves, men.

Let’s be careful out there.

The ol’ switcheroo?

There are certainly no shortage of how-the-hell-did-he-do-that moments in fourth floor men’s room. I have seen things that make me question my own anatomy.

But this one...it almost hurts my feelings it’s so confusing.

I’m talking about a chocolate spatter pattern...on the front edge of the bowl.

Think about that one for a minute, will you?

The bowl had been flushed. The only evidence of prior use: three tire tracks down the front edge of the bowl.

How does that happen? I’ve been turning it over and over in my mind and the only possible explanation is this: Somebody that works on the fourth floor has had his anus and his penis switched.

I know that’s a strong accusation. I don’t make it lightly. It is simply the only plausible explanation for what I saw. One of my co-workers moved his exit to the front. I have no idea why.

If you are this medical marvel, please leave a comment and help us understand.

Thanks, but no thanks

This morning, a "generous" soul left his copy of Road & Track on the floor in the penthouse stall of fourth floor men's room.

Need to drop a load but are also dying to find out how the new Porsche handled on the test track? Thankfully, there is one location where you can do both.

Seriously, guys. It's been said before, but it bears repeating: this is not a library.

Think about it. If the magazine is left on the ground close enough to the toilet so you can reach down and pick it up while you're in the middle of your business, it's in "the splash zone" and should not be handled.