FCN Classic: Potty Humor

Disclaimer: The topic of the following essay is a restroom. This essay was not intended to be read by people with any sense of decency, sanitation, or propriety; that is, it was not written for the fairer sex. It contains descriptions of morbidly revolting (and sometimes friendly) creatures not originally intended for human company. This is the stuff nightmares are made of. My nightmares, anyway.

When we first moved into this house, the restroom was just short of brand new: it wasn't completely finished. The faux marble countertop needed to be caulked into the wall, and the one-piece shower/bathtub needed caulking into the floor. We assured ourselves that we would take care of these tasks as soon as we had time. There were so many other things to worry about at the time that we didn't bother ourselves.

My mother gifted us with a full set of matching restroom items with a sailboat theme, like toothbrush holder, soap dispenser, towels, shower mat, even a nifty picture to hang over the potty depicting a lighthouse on a cliff by the ocean. We had a full arsenal of towels, including a set of green ones with our names on them, and a stockpile of toilet paper and shaving cream. We considered ourselves moved in.

There's something funny about restrooms. You have to clean them. This is something it took us about two years to realize. Understand, for those of you who don't know us personally, that this restroom was used exclusively by a collection of males. Males do not notice filth until it asks them to scoot over. This is exactly what happened.

Two years had gone by, with five males cycling in and out as fast as they could, carrying out restroom tasks like showering, shaving, tooth brushing, and wrestling, day in and day out. The caulking was still unfinished. Multicolored scum started to build up around the potty. Then the shower. Then the walls and mirror. Then the sinks and toothbrushes. One day, while I was examining my ruggedly handsome visage in the mirror (this is after I had carved out a space in the layers of white stuff covering it), I heard a peculiar voice coming from the direction of the shower.

It was a cephalopod. It had come up from the crawl space and wriggled through the a rotted-away crack in the floor to talk to me. I was flattered that it would feel me to be worth the journey. I did not realize at the time how easy this journey was, nor how often it was completed.

"The boys and I have been talking," The cephalopod announced, "And we think the picture over the potty is unsightly." I glanced at the picture, which was of a glob of shaving cream on a cliff by the ocean.

"It is a bit strange," I conceded. "Want me to cover it up?"

"Actually," The cephalopod said, "We want it replaced."

"Well that's nice of you. Did you bring the replacement?" The cephalopod chortled, releasing a viscous yellow fluid that oozed off the potty into the waste basket.

"Don't you see?" It asked. "I'm your replacement." It moved into position just above the flush handle. "And this way, you don't have to flush anymore. I'll do it for you."

"What's a flush?" I asked.

The introduction of the Cephalopod on the Potty marked a new era for the boy's restroom. We call this era the Paleogooey era. It is identified in the layers on the mirror by whitening toothpaste full of small rodents and razor handles.

During this era, we uncovered seven new species formerly unknown to science - all of them rotifers, all of them visible without the use of a microscope. One species in particular had undergone the evolutionary process known as cephalization, which, for those of you unversed in the ways of quack science, is what happened to Cody a few years back. This new species was politically active, and, after a brief power struggle with the boys downstairs, established themselves as the rulers of the restroom, which was okay with us, because, under their leadership, the pond scum unclogged the shower drain. Now that's results.

There are two sinks in our restroom. One of them releases milky water, the other releases clear brown water. We use the milky water for shaving and the brown water for brushing.

We were able to coexist with our flora and fauna friends for the duration of the Paleogooey era. With the emergence of predators, however, we were forced into the Mesogooey era, marked by fossilized rodents and mollusks with faces contorted into expressions of agony.

As with most things in the restroom, predators came in all sizes, shapes, and textures. Some hung from the ceiling and dropped down on passing prey. Some hid in the medicine cabinet and leaped out when the door opened in order to scare people. Some drank the shampoo. Some drank other things. Irritated by these pests, the rotifers declared war on the predators, and marshaled their subjugated life forms into an army.

The battle was fought on the only surface dry enough for organisms that couldn't swim: the countertop. The leaders of both armies stood on bars of soap facing each other and exchanged threats and boasting. Then a dreadful melee occurred, during which more progress was done toward sanitizing the restroom than had ever been achieved in its entire cumulative history.

This astounding record notwithstanding, the rotifers were badly defeated and had to beat a hasty retreat to the liquid soap dispenser, where they negotiated a surrender on very unfair terms. The subjugated organisms gave up their weapons and returned to their homes and families. The normal rotifers were allowed to leave, but had to respect strict lifestyle regulations including taxes on all commerce, curfew, and observance of a no-fly zone. The leading rotifers were sold into slavery to the boys downstairs. The president of the restroom was tortured to death by slow roasting. This was achieved by an ingenious device fabricated just for the purpose by a clever but very rude fungus who used Ryan's contact lenses to magnify the sun's rays (this was back when the window over the shower could still admit light).

The Mesogooey era brought about a number of changes. We had to remove the shower mat because it was a breeding ground for some of the larger, toothier predators. This required special diving and pulling equipment, and a paper barf bag. We also had to put padlocks on the shampoos and conditioners because various grubs were holding conventions in the bottles. We received a petition signed by several thousand shower scum demanding that we remove the sanitizer from under the sink, which we obeyed with great alacrity. There's nothing worse than angry shower scum.

One day we discovered some mushrooms growing behind the potty. These were of a species we styled Fungi Loganhercium, though obviously it is impossible to know exactly who the ancestor was without DNA testing. Though we had been through a lot, we were upset by these mushrooms and decided that something had to be done about them. But I digress.

About this time, we discovered that the white stuff we had been using actually wasn't toothpaste, and the Mesogooey era came to an end. This ushered in the Neogooey era, marked by small mammals and fungi in various embarrassing and scandalous positions. The Neogooey era established a sort of balance. The predators roam free about the restroom, but try to avoid making us so bothered that we actually notice. The rotifers lead an underground resistance, and we can sometimes hear them engaging in strategic sabotage of predator strongholds, or breaking into weapons caches, which left us without basic hygiene equipment for the next day. The creepy crawlers used an all-natural substance to caulk the counter and shower at no charge.

As for the males, we get by with improvisation. Sometimes this means drying off clipped fingernails from the floor to replace stolen hygienic tools. Sometimes this means engaging in eloquent diplomatic and mediatory negotiations while doing one's business. Sometimes this means air drying after a shower, and sometimes it means using the threadbare rags under the sink - the ones with letters smeared across them.

The Cephalopod on the Potty has become a household favorite. He is calm, patient, and wise, to say nothing of being an excellent confidante and advisor, particularly in woman matters. Every morning, as I shower off the night's growth, I tell the Cephalopod on the Potty my troubles, and he invariably comes up with a maxim that sums up just how badly I have been screwed.

If we really wanted it, we could clean our restroom. We could contract with war lords from distant, despotic governments and purchase illegal biological weapons in exchange for national secrets. We could sterilize the restroom and rebuild from the crawl space up. There are two reasons we do not.

First, if we were caught, we would go to jail, and when we got back, we'd be grounded for a month. Second, we have grown to know and love the organisms that make up the restroom community. Sure, it's less than sanitary. Sure, there are unfriendly creatures. Sure, it's the kind of thing bachelors do. But this restroom has something all those clean ones don't: character. Both to the young males of the family and to millions of others, this restroom is home.

Yipeeeeee!

I am out of breath and sweating like a ten-year old during recess. My heart is thundering like the pistons of a sports car and I have a few residual shakes from some caffeine induced late night studying. But I can still shout and sing and type and do everything to tell the world how happy I am that my last final of my last class of my last semester at community college is COMPLETE!

Nary a few minutes ago, I waltzed (1-2-3, 1-2-3) out of class, the warmth of my professor’s handshake still impressed on my palm. It isn’t that far behind me, but I’ve already scrubbed my memory clean of everything I learned this semester. Descartes, Hume and Guano (or was it Guanillo?) can go back to being their dead, aspirated selves. Nutrition class’ subtle condemnation of my eating habits is free to return to obscurity. My soils book will return to, well, the dirt from whence it came.

A half opened packaged of dehydrated Ramen noodles reminds me of my hunger – I read once that fasting can help retain facts, and was in the 15^th hour of self deprivation – but only briefly. My emotional state will not let me dwell on my empty stomach for long. My feelings can only be described as giddy; summer vacation is upon us; if you listen closely you can almost hear it hailing – or is that the ceiling fan?

I won’t know my grades for another few days, but right now I really don’t care. I’d go on a date with Phil Spector, that’s how reckless I am. I’d open my eyes in chlorinated water and wait for my contacts to float out. I’d snort Tabasco sauce and put ground pepper on the little thing that hangs down in the back of my mouth. And that’s just the first week of summer.

I promised a friend that I would run around the house three times in my underwear if I get an “A” in my difficult philosophy class. Well, it looks like that seemingly far fetched prediction may come to fruition and I’m a man of my word. If you plan on coming near my place in the next week, also plan on averting your eyes.

Whatever else happens this summer, school classes are not in the cards. I am taking a not-so-well deserved but heavily anticipated three month break from homework, study groups and tests. But that doesn’t mean FCN content will be stopped, or even siphoned. If anything, some time outside the classroom may provide even more fodder for humor and satire. I (and all of FCN, for that matter) will be taking a brief vacation within the next month – nothing too long, just some time away to recharge – but more about that later.

Right now I am going to enjoy the depth of life without responsibility. It’s great to know that I may get up tomorrow morning at a godly hour or I may – with the same consequences – sleep in. My pillow will become my new best friend, sorry Jeremy.

The emotional high is beginning to rub off and the old stressful concern about my grades is seeping in again. That means it's time to go eat and satisfy the hunger that is now threatening to make me look European. I’ll see you guys after the gorge.

Oh, I’m so happy!

Homies, Day 2: "I Thought He was with You."

You know it's a bad sign when, by Tuesday, you're wandering around yawning and scratching and bumping into things. We stayed up way too late and woke up much too early, and the time in between can hardly be classified as sleeping. We held a vote and decided to wait until evening to deal with the animals. When we got home about thirteen hours later, we fed the silently beleagured bunnies and the hyper-active dog, then trudged upstairs to absorb another flick.

Halfway through, during a lull in the action, we heard a scratching sound coming from downstairs. Naturally, we finished the movie, and then went downstairs with a significant measure of trepidation to see what was going on.

We stopped short at the door to the laundry room.

"Say, wasn't there something about a cat?" I wondered.

"Sounds familiar."

"He hasn't been fed in ... what ... almost three days?"

"Don't worry. Cats are fairly docile creatures."

My homie had obviously forgotten the one part about cats being the kings of the serengetti. When we opened the door, there was a flash of orange fur and a freakishly expressive: "Reeeeer!"

The cat bounded up onto a couch and out an open window into the street. We watched for a few seconds, dumbfounded.

"Are you sure it's the same cat?" Asked my homie. "He's a lot thinner than I remember."

Then we frantically pulled on our shoes and followed.

We spent the evening and the early morning hours wandering around the neighborhood shouting: "Here kitty! Kitty! Come on out, we want to talk! Look, we're sorry about the litterbox. It won't happen again, we swear! Listen, I know you're angry, but if you just come out and hear us out ..."

The neighbors complained, punctuating their polite suggestions with assorted fruits and vegetables hurled in our general direction.

At sunup, we wandered wearily back home and took care of the bunnies and dog. We're still not sure what we're going to tell the cat's owner, but it'll take some serious creativity to get through this one.

Homies, Day 1: Night of the Living Dead Pooh-Bears

I don't pretend to understand why a household of women* asked two derelict college students to house-sit for them while they were vacationing in Zimbabwe. But I do understand perfectly why the derelict college students agreed in a heartbeat. Big house, minimal schedule, two big TVs, and, perhaps best of all, a pink-walled room loaded for bear (literally) with stuffed animals. We were asked to spend a week looking after various flora and fauna around the house. We agreed.

We arrived around eight yesterday evening and moved in. It took about seven trips from the car to the living room to cart in all our essential junk, but we managed. Then, after a short and very masculine celebration that everyone is glad wasn't filmed, we got down to the serious business: movie watching.

We took a quick break to deal with the animals (two succulent bunnies and an over-friendly dog), then plopped our lazy selves back in front of the ol' tube and soaked up some more cinematic goodness. We could tell this was going to be a good week.

Around two in the morning, we stumbled off to bed. I was lucky enough to sleep in the pink-walled, bear-loaded room. The lights went down and I pulled the blankies up to my chin, fiercely hugging an adorable head-sized panda named Panda.

A half-hour later, I was still wide awake, and sweating like a dog. Actually, that's not a good analogy. Dogs don't sweat. In any case, I was upset. There were about a dozen different pooh-bears scattered around the room, and they were all watching me. It was freaky. I couldn't sleep.

At four in the morning it was beyond freaky. I was standing in the middle of the bed, turning in sudden jumps to make sure one of the other pooh-bears wasn't sneaking up on me, waving poor Panda like a weapon. The pooh-bears all just leered back at me in quiet contempt, waiting for me to drop off to sleep.

That's when I heard it; a quiet thump-thump like something out of Poe's Tell Tale Heart. I could hear the bears' hearts beating!

One of the stuffed creatures had a most hideous eye. It had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it and whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold.

I couldn't take it any longer. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I flung myself down the hall to my homie and fellow FCN contributor's room. I found him sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed. There was mosquito netting pulled tightly all around him. The scene was strange enough to make me stop short. When I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, he slowly raised his finger to his lips, eyes still closed.

"Shhhhh ..."

Two minutes later, we both poured, screaming incoherently, into the dinky yellow car we use to get around, and spent the rest of the night reclining in the front seats, eyes wide open. The pooh-bears watched us sorrowfully from the second story windows until we drove away to school. Freaks.

* There's a guy in the household, too.