That's right. I've learned to read, do math, even program computers and fly simulated airplanes, but I've never mastered using the toilet.
What don't I get, you ask? Can I not wipe myself fully? Do I not know how to raise a toilet seat? Am I confined to adult diapers and bedpans, forever relying on others when nature calls? Nay, I say, and again nay. If only one of those scenarios were true... Oh, how lovely it would be to have someone else's hand run a baby wipe through my crack every day. But no.
Being the germaphobe I am, I never sat on toilets, even when I was young. The thought of toilet water splashing against my anus or someone's nasty ass germs getting on me was too much. In fact, until a few days ago, I'm not sure if I believed that other people actually sat down on toilets or not. At home, I never sat on the toilet -- never. I don't even know if my mother taught me how or not. Left to my own devices, the technique I developed and have always used is the 'bend-over squat' -- that is, not quite hovering, but not quite standing. (Editor's note: the ol' Stoop n' Poop.)
The first picture I have included below is a decent illustration of both my artistic ability and my crapping style. The problem with this is that whenever I have diarrhea (usually rather explosive for me), I will spread it about the area, as the second illustration I have included shows.
One of my most memorable instances of this was in the bathroom of a Barnes & Noble store. Just before going there (pun intended), my friend and I had eaten loads of greasy pizza at a cheap buffet across the street. The gallons of soda and grease enhanced the relaxed mood I felt in the bookstore, and I quickly trucked it to throne, whereupon -- in the handicap stall, no less -- I covered the walls in slimy excrement. The tank, seat, and floor around the commode were, needless to say, barely visible.
Friends, I am not a turd terrorist. I did not take (immediate) joy in what I had done, and I certainly did not mean it maliciously. I am a product of my upbringing -- my bowels were the innocent weapons that my untrained body did use to murder that poor john. I beg your forgiveness; or if nothing else, your pity.
My most recent bout of loose stool caused hell, but with a silver lining. I came into work the other day, still terribly ill from what had caused me to stay home the day before. I was sitting at my desk, working, when I felt a grumbling down below. I didn't think much of it, so I held it in... until I sneezed. I almost cried after realizing I had just soiled myself. Hobbling to the bathroom, I pulled down my pants, squatted, and let it rip... everywhere.
At an office with only five employees, it becomes rather obvious who has done what. Frantically tearing off my underwear (knowing my only option was to throw the stained briefs away), I formulated a plan to wipe, clean everything up, and leave.
I spent an hour in the bathroom, using an entire roll of paper towels and flushing so many times that the other employees were no doubt wondering what had happened in thin-walled building. The mess wasn't as bad as the bookstore, but it was in a far worse place. I did finally clean most of it up, and made it back to my desk. But I had little time for rest, for the next beast was about to turn its watery head. Not more than half an hour after sitting down, I felt the rumble again. I knew I had no choice but to go NOW, and I did... and I knew I had to face my fear. I knew I had to sit.
I went into the ladies bathroom. We have no women working here, so I figured that the combination of rarely-used plus female-butts-only would make a more comfortable transition. So, there, I sat, for the first time ever. I sat down on a woman's toilet, and I let go. I let it all go.
And so I met the toilet like it should be met. My diarrhea stayed in the toilet, and the only thing I had to wipe down was my bung.
The conflict of emotions! It was like knowing I had wasted years of my life, regretting it, yet also knowing that I wasn't going to waste the rest. It was sorrowful and reassuring at once.
There are others like me. We are hidden in the crowd. You probably know one -- you might even be one. If you aren't, don't ridicule us. If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you give us laxative, do we not poop?
And if you are like me, then, brother or sister, come and join me. It's a little chilly, and you feel a little exposed, but the water doesn't splash like you think, and it's so much more relaxing.
-- Bantam