Let’s talk shit! And piss! And ownership! And who belongs where and why! Let’s talk about the fear of a dwindling few who want to bar an increasingly expanding universe of transgender folks from taking a fucking squirt when nature calls … in other words, let’s talk about panic in the loo!
And before we get into it like two drunks arguing over what really went down on that fateful hill at the end of “Radio Flyer,” let me be up front and damn center real quick, like Mr. Orange bleeding out in the lap of Mr. White, and confess something. I hate having to use a public restroom no matter the establishment or the occasion … I fucking despise entering those porcelain germ dungeons of stank air, sticky floors and stall-walls scribbled with lame, Andrew Dice Clay-level jokes; those fart-choked echo chambers with garbage cans overflowing with gooey-god-knows-what awfulness, where I’m forced, time and again to quiver like Howard Can’t-Touch-This Hughes as I open doors and turn on faucets with make-shift gloves I hastily crafted together with roll-towels (don’t even get me started on air-propelled hand dryers! Those screaming jet engines of metal madness that go crop dusting your freshly scrubbed hands with villainous bacteria like a cruel joke engineered by Dr. No! You’re better off just wiping your paws on your Electric Wizard T-shirt and calling it a day).
So why all the wack’ grammar and hyperbole you ask? Just what’s the skinny to this piss-stained piece?
The point I’m trying to carve out of granite with a high powered gold stream of maximum relief, my peoples, is this: I don’t care who shares the ol’ water closet with me. I welcome you all with open zippers and diverted eyes as we aim for the urinal cake prize … I say neutralize the situation, and let’s all move them bowels in peace and solidarity regardless of our gender, whether you were born one sex and thenceforth remain, or if you were born one way but have since bravely busted from the cocoon at a later date in post-womb life anew. Fuck it — come empty the refuse from your temple beside me because I’m not there, and you’re not there, to make acquaintances or hold court, or to consort with one another on the pressing issues of the day. We ain’t there to parlay: We’re there, my lovelies, to do our daily dirty business, and, as long as we stuff our faces with sustenance in order to survive, that business be a boomin’.
See, the fates that bring us running to toilets and urinals, that have already been desecrated by a blue billion blurry genitals before you even get your chance to heat it up and blast one down the hopper, don’t give two shakes of a Doberman’s cropped tail what utilities we possess, or how we came to possess them in the subterranean labyrinth beneath our clothes. No! Those cruel fates just know we made a brash dietary mistake earlier in the day and have now been struck with crippling diarrhea, and it’s go time! And I, for one, am not gonna’ stop fellow human beings from relieving themselves in whatever citadel of plumbing they feel more at home in … look we’ve all been there, and we can all relate, for who among us has not snuck a 2-liter bottle or three of contraband Big Red into the movies, drunk it like a champ, and then have literal seconds to get ourselves to that waste station before the bladder makes like Old Faithful in our undergarments thus making us miss Baloo the Bear put the thrash down on that no-good-cretin Shere-Khan, thus promptly ruining our evening? Ya’ feel me? Good!
So now that we’re all relating — shit — let’s get our levels set-correct like the boom system in a low-riding Cadillac Eldorado by dialing down the hysteria to a nice flat silence and dialing up that chill to a Herculean 11. The only things that should be painted on a sign related to a public bathroom is that it is a handicap accessible commode. That’s all! And look I’m gonna be as honest as Ernest here, as a white and mostly heterosexual man (I say mostly, because Viggo Mortensen’s steamy, naked knife-fighting always does take my breath away) — I really hope none of this comes across as crunchy, ‘cause I’m really not trying to find myself marooned on the dismal island of boorish and offensive behavior alongside the Duke Boys and “Revenge Of The Nerds,” because I dropped some term that’s way not kewl anymore. I’m trying to keep up with y’all! Truly, I mean no ill will and can honestly say I have a heart as warm and inviting as a watermelon Pop-Tart … Kisses! •