Tuesday, February 25, 2014

Toilet Seat Wars

Picture this -

It's 3:00 AM, and you've been lying awake in bed for the last 10 minutes trying to convince yourself that you don't actually have to go to the bathroom. I have yet to figure out why we do this; it's not like if you ignore your full bladder, it's just going to go away. Nonetheless, you try to convince yourself, and eventually you come to the realization that if you just get up and go pee, you can finally get back to sleep.

So, with a sigh of groggy irritation, you thrust your covers aside and crawl out of bed. With your arms stretched out like a toddler, you stagger through your dark bedroom, possibly tripping on the underwear that you lazily did not put your hamper when you took it off.

Then it's into the hallway where you try desperately not to make too much noise on the squeaky floors. This ultimately results in you making more noise than if you had simply been walking normally. Finally, after staggering, stumbling, and fumbling, you make it to the bathroom and slip inside.

At this point, you have a critical decision to make: turn the light on or leave it off?

Opting to save your retinas, you let the door shut quietly behind you and rely on your spectacular photographic memory to find your way to the toilet. After bumping into the counter twice, stubbing your toe on the cat box, and banging your knuckles against the tank of the toilet, you arrive and sit down with a sigh of relief.

....and topple backwards, falling into the toilet and dropping your cheeks right into the fantastically appalling toilet water. You try to scramble out, but your knees are shoved into your chest,  your back is crammed into the back of the toilet, and you can't see a damn thing because someone didn't turn the lights on.

You squirm and struggle against the relentless clutches of the toilet, feeling the toilet water caress your cheeks like the cold hand of reality. Finally you find traction, and with a surge of victory, you vault out of the toilet like an Olympic gymnast.

Breathing hard, you kick off your pajamas and rush over to the light, flipping the switch and promptly blinding yourself. The water is now dripping down your butt and onto your upper thighs, and you still can't see because you've been blinded. Fumbling around, you find the faucet in the shower, and crank it on, throwing yourself inside before the water is even warm, desperate to get the toilet water off your butt.

You spend five minutes scrubbing your butt and only your butt until it's pink and you've convinced yourself that it's clean enough that you might be able to put the whole ordeal out of your mind. Slowly, you reach out and shut off the water. Your bloodshot eyes turn to the toilet to see it sitting there, victoriously mocking you with it's seat held high.

And the worst of it all? You still have to pee.

Can we all just agree to leave the lid closed? It's physically impossible to fall into a closed toilet.

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