Call me Porky. Not because I'm a stuttering pig, but because I am about to relate a most inappropriate tale, the likes of which should probably be rated 'R'. It's no warm fuzzy story with a bit of potty humor like the bathroom scene in Daddy Daycare. Nope. My imagination takes it into the girls' shower room at Angel Beach High.
Today I took The Pony to his appointment with the optometrist. That's neither here nor there. OK, actually, it IS there. The scene of the crime. The Pony had nothing to do with it. He was merely sitting blind, waiting on the examination of his dilated eyes. That takes a while, you know. After the regular testing and exam, the dilation adds 30 minutes minimum. Those of us who are old fogies on blood pressure meds know that an unplanned 30 minutes during the morning hours can spell trouble. Trouble with a capital 'P'. As we were leaving, I stopped to use the public restroom.
This is not a big office. No men's room and women's room. Just a public restroom for everybody. A one-seater. Nobody was in there when I knocked on the door. So I went in. Apparently, a man had preceded me. OBVIOUSLY, a man had preceded me.
Sweet Gummi Mary! What is with you guys? Just because you don't have to clean it does not mean you can throw caution to the wind, and urine to the four corners. Seriously. This dude must have had a shower head on the end of his pipe. Sprinkles to the left of me, sprinkles to the right, and more stuck in the middle of the back section of the toilet seat. Not cool. Don't tell me the hoser didn't notice the mess. He was marking his territory.
Two men had been waiting quite a while as we signed in, went through the exam, and picked out glasses. As they were leaving, I heard one ask to use the restroom. The worker said, "Oh, sure." Because really, you don't have to ask. It's right there beside the waiting room, with a sign showing that it's for both men and women. Nothing is marked private, or for employees. I guess this dude was betting that the employees had to use it, too. I think he did his splattering on purpose. If Jackson Pollock worked in yellow and white, urine on porcelain, it might have been a masterpiece. With the sheer amount of body fluid on the rim, I doubt that any went into the toilet. Dude probably didn't even need to flush.
ACK! When you gotta go, you gotta go. Even if it means you gotta take three thick wads of toilet paper and wipe three sections of the seat. Then take three more wads of toilet paper and squirt soft soap on them and wipe the sections again. Then take three more wads and wipe off the soap. Then take some long, foldy strips and line the seat. No hovering here. ICK! Unclean! Unclean! I scrubbed my arms up to the elbows before leaving, and doused them with half a bottle of Germ-X in the car.
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS, ANYWAY?
The Pony, who really did not want to hear my tale of woe, declared that such a scenario might arise if one sneezed or coughed during the emission. Dang. This crime-against-women scene looked like one was goosed during a 9.5 earthquake while being buffeted by hurricane gale winds.
I feel sorry for that dude's mom. Because I know that even if he had managed to capture a wife, she is long gone by now. Some issues are insurmountable.
What we need is Bertha Balbricker to inspect the members of the waiting room crew. To finger the culprit.