Mad Can
Today, I continued my survey of bathrooms on campus. My goal: to find the most luxurious, clean, and vacant facility available. My favorite so far has been the second floor men's lavatory at Altgeld, but I will continue to strive for greater places to lay my waste to rest.
After my poetry class, I felt a pressing urge to find a bathroom and I went, after some consideration, to Illini Hall, an imposing, moldering structure sitting atop an Illini burial ground. A gold painted sign stretches over the entrance; Don't let that illusion of grandeur fool you, in reality, the place is barely standing and it reeks of decaying gym socks and death.
Illini Hall has three floors. The first floor bathroom looked promising, but was occupied, an immediate disqualification. I will never move my bowels in an occupied room, no matter what I threaten. I ventured to the second floor and sought a better sanctuary. The second floor was eerily dark after the blinding sunshine of the February afternoon and I tightened my grip on my pocket knife as I continued my measured tread over the aged and warped boards of the floor. Every office I looked into was occupied either by mad-eyed academics onanists or noxious palpable odors. I choked back my rising bile and strode past them, gaining courage from the Toledo steel in my right hand. In the corner of the second floor, I located another lavatory. It was dark and populated by ectoplasms never before seen or smelled. Evil emanations issued from all corners, but I brushed past them and found the light switch. With the spirits driven to the outer reaches of the circle of light issuing from the single bulb in the ceiling, I felt safe to move my bowels. I won't ever defecate in the presence of another human, but I was about to bring some competition to the otherworldly and malodorous menagerie incumbent to that privy.
Into the stall I crept, taking care to build myself a nest of toilet paper on the pearly black seat of the commode. One layer, two layers, three layers. The crepey paper strata rose slowly and I finally bared my lower half and seated myself over the bowl.
BUT WAIT! I had company. One of the mad ones, an academic, had broken from his pen-like den and seemed intent on relieving himself on just the other side of the metal barrier. He came within a foot of my seated form and groaned softly as he released his steaming amber fluids into the porcelain receptacle. I could hear him repack himself with a grunt and quick zip and then he was gone.
Without washing his hands.
FOUL WRETCH! My mind reeled, as if struck with a rubber mallet of the kind commonly for sale at many hardware stores, nationwide. He could have touched anything in this room. HEATHEN! My sensibilities shattered beyond repair, I made as if to fashion myself a pair of gloves from the tissue-like paper that reposed in mammoth rolls on the wall of my compartment. This cannot work, I realized. With resignation in my heart, I used my crude gloves to clean myself, as delicately as possible. Taking care not to touch more of the bathroom fixtures than was necessary, I used the paper products at my disposal to press the lever that sent my waste into oblivion with a sudden roar of cleansing water. With a new piece of tissue, I opened the stall door and operated the faucets. Finally, I nudged open the door and, fleeing as though several pounds lighter, I escaped into the sunlight.
True Story.
As for the bathrooms at Illini Hall, I'd grade them at a B-.
After my poetry class, I felt a pressing urge to find a bathroom and I went, after some consideration, to Illini Hall, an imposing, moldering structure sitting atop an Illini burial ground. A gold painted sign stretches over the entrance; Don't let that illusion of grandeur fool you, in reality, the place is barely standing and it reeks of decaying gym socks and death.
Illini Hall has three floors. The first floor bathroom looked promising, but was occupied, an immediate disqualification. I will never move my bowels in an occupied room, no matter what I threaten. I ventured to the second floor and sought a better sanctuary. The second floor was eerily dark after the blinding sunshine of the February afternoon and I tightened my grip on my pocket knife as I continued my measured tread over the aged and warped boards of the floor. Every office I looked into was occupied either by mad-eyed academics onanists or noxious palpable odors. I choked back my rising bile and strode past them, gaining courage from the Toledo steel in my right hand. In the corner of the second floor, I located another lavatory. It was dark and populated by ectoplasms never before seen or smelled. Evil emanations issued from all corners, but I brushed past them and found the light switch. With the spirits driven to the outer reaches of the circle of light issuing from the single bulb in the ceiling, I felt safe to move my bowels. I won't ever defecate in the presence of another human, but I was about to bring some competition to the otherworldly and malodorous menagerie incumbent to that privy.
Into the stall I crept, taking care to build myself a nest of toilet paper on the pearly black seat of the commode. One layer, two layers, three layers. The crepey paper strata rose slowly and I finally bared my lower half and seated myself over the bowl.
BUT WAIT! I had company. One of the mad ones, an academic, had broken from his pen-like den and seemed intent on relieving himself on just the other side of the metal barrier. He came within a foot of my seated form and groaned softly as he released his steaming amber fluids into the porcelain receptacle. I could hear him repack himself with a grunt and quick zip and then he was gone.
Without washing his hands.
FOUL WRETCH! My mind reeled, as if struck with a rubber mallet of the kind commonly for sale at many hardware stores, nationwide. He could have touched anything in this room. HEATHEN! My sensibilities shattered beyond repair, I made as if to fashion myself a pair of gloves from the tissue-like paper that reposed in mammoth rolls on the wall of my compartment. This cannot work, I realized. With resignation in my heart, I used my crude gloves to clean myself, as delicately as possible. Taking care not to touch more of the bathroom fixtures than was necessary, I used the paper products at my disposal to press the lever that sent my waste into oblivion with a sudden roar of cleansing water. With a new piece of tissue, I opened the stall door and operated the faucets. Finally, I nudged open the door and, fleeing as though several pounds lighter, I escaped into the sunlight.
True Story.
As for the bathrooms at Illini Hall, I'd grade them at a B-.
posted by jw at
2:10 PM
1 Comments:
I never wash my hands after I pee.
Don't tell anyone.
You're funny.
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home