Community

The concept of community bathrooms, it’s just very unsettling to me. I know that logistically they make sense: you have hundreds of people in one building—say, at a university—you need to have enough toilets to facilitate those people. I get it. That doesn’t mean I have to like or use them, though.

Is that the reason we have community bathrooms, anyway? Did the institutionalization of many toilets, one room begin when cities started to form? Because, to me, it seems like the antithesis of civility. You think when cavemen were out on the hunt and needed to drop some heat they squatted behind adjacent bushes? I doubt it.

If one dude followed his comrade to the trees for taking care of business, I’m sure the first guy would’ve turned to his buddy and said, “Uh, Larry; where do you think you’re going?”

And Larry would’ve replied, “Well, Glenn, I figure we could contain that which emerges from our hindquarters to one area of the hunting grounds. It’ll greatly reduce the chance of us stepping in our own messes, possibly tracking it through our respective caves. I think having this designated area will alleviate an unnecessary stress trigger.”

“I’m not stressed about it. Does it bother you? Is that why you’ve been a little off today?”

“We’re stalking saber-toothed tigers, here, and our only line of defense is a fragment of shale tied to a tree branch with twine. You never know what’s going to be the tipping point.”

“Ah, man. Can’t you wait your turn?”

“No, this is happening now.”

“Larry, you make a good point about designating an area for taking care of that which emerges from our hindquarters. But let’s look at the facts: we’ve got land as far as the eye can see to do our business, and it’s just you and me. There’s no need to make this awkward. These next five minutes, I believe it’s some well-deserved Me Time.”

“Don’t leave me alone, Glenn.”

“I’m sorry, Larry. This is the way of the caveman.”

See, kids. That’s what grandmas and grandpas are talking about when they refer to the “good old days.” Due to overpopulation and an irrational dependence on community, the era of shitting in peace has done the way of the dinosaur.

Sometimes I have to bite the bullet and find myself in one of the world’s many public bathrooms. When this happens at school, I turn to any one of my approved men’s rooms, which I call, “safe potties.” I’m not telling you where they are for one of two reasons: you’ll either have no idea where they’re located because you’ve never been to MSU, or the next time you see me on campus walking toward one of them, you’ll know what I’m about to do. No dice. These are my on-campus sanctuaries.

My most recent go-to restroom is private; there’s only one stall. That way, when someone feels the urge to “follow me behind the bushes” after I’ve already established my place atop the throne, they’re shit out of luck. It’s kind of nice to hear someone enter then quickly leave, knowing that you can finish in peace.

What I’ve found most disturbing about this particular men’s room, though, is the graffiti inside the stall. It’s typical bathroom humor—vulgar non-sequiturs, the kind of comments that one would only make under the veil of anonymity (much like Internet comments on news websites). The alarming part is the poor execution of grammar and mechanics by the authors.

Whenever I’m in this stall, I just want to grab a pen and start marking up the walls’ sentences. Sometimes trying to turn off the editor in your brain is impossible (unless I’m blogging or updating Facebook). I don’t go through with these edits because it would probably invite even more lewd graffiti. And since I’m on campus at the same time the custodial staff cleans the bathrooms, I fear that I’d get caught in the act and the janitor would blame me for all of the wall scribblings. Especially the misspelled and improperly punctuated ones. And that would be more awkward than taking a dump next to someone who’s also taking a dump.