Of Human Bondage (To Human Toilets)

“I need to tell you something, and I know this might sound a bit disturbing (pause) but it’s very possible that the prior owner of this condo replaced her old toilet with a refurbished one.”
–realtor, phone conversation prior to closing, 2003

Although common sense was never assumed to be widespread, common courtesy, its more easily learned cousin, requires little in the way of intelligence. When applied to the real estate market, if a sensible person were to knowingly list their house with a broken toilet, they might arrange for a replacement (or at very least, a reduction in price) as a condition of sale. And no, in a quest for that porcelain proxy, trolling white trash yard sales or ghetto fabulous scrap heaps – those venues of toothless impropriety – is never an acceptable solution. Said differently, risking one’s life while eluding dangerous simpletons (whether rabid junkyard managers or rabid armies of redneck inbreds), does not trump a Home Depot visit, despite perceived cash savings.

While “pre-owned” might be a cute moniker to slap on an older Lexus, when applied to crappers the term references (at worst) vindictiveness, or (at best) mental retardation on behalf of the seller. After all, I’m fairly sure that Jim Bob didn’t institute a twelve point inspection before drop kicking his thunderbox to the curb after deeming it unworthy of his own ass. And if this unflushable atrocity was doomed to lie sideways amongst empty boxes of Meister Brau while neighborhood hooligans disgraced it in a series of post-midnight, performance art shows, then no amount of refurbishing would allow me to comfortably drop drawer in its dishonored presence. Even if an industry-sanctioned check did exist, the notion of some obese bowl czar kicking the proverbial tires – ottoman in tow – after gorging himself on a magnum of beans raises the comfort level nary a few notches. Nobody wants a construction-grade Port-o-Potty nailed crudely into their bedroom closet as a “seller’s compromise,” and nobody wants a past-prime john languishing sadly in their loo-to-be, regardless of how proud it made somebody’s daddy feel thirty years ago.
The slovenly loon who unloaded her ramshackle condo upon me and my wife was a few flushes short of sane (see “My Mortgage Can Beat Up Your Mortgage” from April 27). And while her two bathroom unit claimed only one working toilet, she assured her realtor of a replacement fixture. Lest you view me as spoiled, I wasn’t expecting a reclinable, cheek warming, bidet equipped Japanese model that might or might not brew coffee, toast bread, or auto fellate. Rather, a seat and a tank would suffice. After all, my trips to the pool are quick and efficient; no spa-like half hour escapades or magazine perusal necessary. What I received, however, was a bargain basement low-boy which had seen the derriere prints of many a man since the Carter presidency. On the plus side, I suppose I was lucky she hadn’t left me with an upper-decker, that defiantly hard to locate floater and the plumbing equivalent of a double middle finger flip.

Nevertheless, when a tiny perfume bottle dove squarely onto the tank – creating a hairline fracture-cum-chasm which snaked angularly and converted my bathroom into an Old Faithful mock-up – I was secretly elated. David, smaller than a church mouse, so quietly unassuming in his perfume holding perch above the towel rack, had finally toppled Goliath, the menacing juggernaut of unwiped asses and thoughtless prior owners. Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I was free at last. And boy, was it liberating knowing that my shiny new throne was one butt crack away from installation.

Regarding disposal (for those not intimately involved with their commodes), there exists no way to physically transport an unboxed toilet from point A to point B without looking like a maladroit lummox; especially if point A is a second floor condo, and point B is the communal garbage shed, located at the bottom of a steep incline. That said, if one believed himself to be a conquering hero, freed from the yoke of used toilet bondage, he might happily laugh off unfunny jokes while alternately pulling, dragging, and lifting his potty en route to the dumpster; a leaky trail of backwater its final tears. Whether charitably gifted to some fleabag hostel or sealed with Bondo and refurbished anew, my nemesis had passed on ... possibly to the benefit of oversexed college travelers, or possibly to the chagrin of your new neighbors.

Or possibly, dear reader, to you. And that kind of unknown quantity almost makes diapers look good again.

Sniff More Stank To Smell More Roses

“That in digesting our common food, there is created or produced in the bowels of human creatures, a great quantity of wind. That the permitting this air to escape and mix with the atmosphere, is usually offensive to the company, from the fetid smell that accompanies it. That all well-bred people therefore, to avoid giving such offense, forcibly restrain the efforts of nature to discharge that wind.”
–Ben Franklin “Fart Proudly (or A Letter To A Royal Academy)”

When addressing matters of waste disposal amidst the nation’s vast lavatory network, The Bastard directs an approving fist pump to those lacking in human empathy. And while your fearless author can tally his lifetime public evacuations on one hand, his rule for anti-compassion dually extends into the private sanctum. Namely, while seated atop the porcelain throne within your own tiled fiefdoms – whether dropping kids off at the pool, bombing a small city, or launching a full-scale nuclear attack – reliance on the courtesy flush should be wiped (with a cushy two-ply) from your psyche. Likewise, the exhaust fan, prissy tool of the fragile and weak minded, must be physically destroyed whether by acute disabling or violent machismo; never to again freshen air in your claustrophobic rabbit holes. This much I expect.

To paraphrase the Urban Dictionary, a “courtesy flush” occurs when a spry Tooting Tom flicks his wrist against the toilet lever (sometimes in panic, but often in a state of zen calm) at the exact moment of aquatic impact. If perfectly timed, one’s deposit plummets into a swirling vortex of non-potable water; breaking the speed of sound for those with burrito-chafed asses. Said flush is also an egregious faux-pas. If you can’t be trusted to let your bouquet waft from room to room without committing seppuku, face buried in dishonor, then you can’t be trusted to relieve yourself in civilized quarters. In other words, sprout some hair on your chest and grow up. Or use the shed out back.

Stripping aside the ability to reason, homo sapiens are simply bipedal apes, sharing 95% of DNA with our knuckle dragging friends. And like other creatures, humans have been marking terrain since a prehistoric Hurk first set fire to his enemy’s mud hut and procreated with the residual females. Modern territoriality, however, is a passive-aggressive creed undertaken with property boundaries, taxes, and locks. But deep in the recesses of the brain, beyond the pansy cultural niceties ingrained at childhood, is a wolf intent on ruling his lair; enclosing himself within a circle of steaming piss to demarcate ownership and exude dominance over neighbors. Be not mistaken, the stink of one’s spoils should be celebrated threefold: as a warning to impetuous prowlers, a celebration of health, and a sexual battle cry drawing together the coital yearnings of both sexes. Like a writer at odds with phrasing, or a musician unsure of pitch, there can be nothing more vertiginous than a person embarrassed by their own stench. It's a natural odor. Why get your knickers in a twist when they’re already slung around your ankles?

If one is to thrive in the melting pot of America, one must stew in every ingredient of its malodorous cauldron. Our country was founded on idealism, on debate, and on democratic overhaul of a system which failed its colonists and fouled its citizens through nepotistic royalty. For the free exchange of ideas to continue, it is imperative that we unblock all senses and remain open to all stimuli. Should a man wish to argue an unfavorable opinion, his right to offend exists firmly in the constitutional alloy. Moreover, should a man wish to express himself on the high bowl of waste dumping, then let that man be heard in both grunts and aroma. Should he prepare his thesis via dutch oven, then allow that proposal to cook pungently at extreme temperatures. When we censure each other, we condemn the very pillars of opportunity which drew our impoverished kinfolk across oceans many generations ago.

That flush lever is an oppressive temptress. Empower yourself. Rip it off.