Public Restroom Letter Lost in the Mail

Ladies Public Restroom Association
Street Address Classified, Lest You Destroy Us Too
Everywhere but Where You Need Us, World

Dear Ladies,

About that sign on our doors: We’ve always thought it says ‘Ladies’, but many of you seem to think it says ‘Need Not Flush, Nor Be Civil Here’. You also seem to think the ‘Sanitary Napkin Disposal’ sign on the metal bin is referring to the floor, which is one of the many reasons we’re writing you today. We are your relief, your refuge, yet you show no respect for us whatsoever. But because our lives would be useless without you, we hope you find this note in your Suggestion Box – not to be confused with your Suggestive Box.

Our Porcelain Gods Frown on Golden Showers; It’s an Abomination

We’re understanding. We are. We know our seats are the last place you want to sit, which is why most of us offer the Tissue Paper Flotation Device. We still understand if you’d rather hover over those – they can be lifesavers but don’t exactly scream, “Wetness Protection!” It’s now your turn to understand that a) the perforated center doesn’t punch itself out, and b) the tissue paper is smart but not self-flushing.

Why do you leave the Tissue Paper Flotation Device attached to the seat or only halfway inside the toilet when you leave the stall? They’re not reusable, you know. The lady behind you doesn’t walk in there and think, Oh, how nice! No need to waste another TPFD, there’s a perfectly good one right here.

For those of you who’d rather hover over the seat itself, do you think yourselves so talented with your aim that there’s no need to double-check the seat for splatters? Well, you’re not. You leave the seat looking like an imitation Pollock painting of yellow. And sometimes, when your muse pays a visit, you add a few splashes of red. Charming.

Are you trying to be as artsy with urine as Andy Warhol was? Doubtful. So how does this happen? How do you not notice the puddles you’ve left all over the seat? Maybe it’s because your head’s so far up your own ass that you can’t see or prevent the aftermath of your bodily explosions. Or, do you see it but think it’s too disgusting to clean? If your own fluids and filth disgust you, what makes you think it’s pleasant for someone else to clean? Oh, of course, that’s the janitor’s job. He’s a lowly human being who’s deserving of your mess. I mean, really, he’s the one who has a job and doesn’t spend his days swiping Daddy’s credit card at the mall. What. A. Loser. Be sure to point and laugh at him.

Flushing is too much Like Work?

Sometimes we think our toilets are broken, because they’re often overflowing with shit, toilet paper, TPFDs, tampons and the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. What a shock it is to discover that a single whoosh makes it all disappear. Shocking. Which begs the question: Are you incapable of flushing a toilet? Again, we understand that you want to touch as little as possible but trust us, the soles of your shoes are not germaphobes. Unless you’re missing a leg, you have no excuse for walking away from an un-whooshed toilet. You do this and then have the audacity to whine about the smell of our facilities. Interesting.

You Won’t Love Him Next Week

Listen, Brittnie, no one knows who you are and they don’t care if you heart Jordan. Anyway, Jordan hearts you back so much that he’s written “Call Brittnie for a Blow @ [your phone number]” in the Gents’ room. You’ve proven your commitment by writing your love on the wall and this is how he repays you. Shame. But you never learn your lesson, do you? No, you cross out Jordan and replace him with Austin. After Austin tells everyone that you don’t “put out” enough, you return to our stall and replace his name with a question mark. That’s the thing about love though, Brittnie. There are many questions, so it’s best that you sort them out in your diary. The history of Brittnie’s love life isn’t all that interesting to anyone else… yet. Wait ’til you’ve disappointed your white supremacist Republican father by marrying a black woman and contributing to charities, then write a book about how he tried to murder you for spoiling the family name. Okay?

The Writing Is on the Walls…

You shithouse poets need to get your act together. We’ve got a few gems here and there – Hi, I’m Gonorrhea. Please have a seat and I’ll be right with you! – but for the most part, you’re as bland as Brittnie. Our stalls are not the proper grounds for racial wars. Don’t hide in here and scribble your nonsense – shout it in the streets! Then, if there is a God (as you insist with black Sharpie debates over Nietzsche), someone will see to it that you never write another line of “poetry.” And for Fuck’s sake, please learn to spell. You’re not sitting on a tioliet. When you – witty poet extraordinaire – write “U Suck” on the wall, is this because you don’t like the letter ‘u’? If that’s the case, you need to write “U Sucks.” Be clear, okay? If you’re using it as an abbreviation for ‘you’, then you suck. (Apologies if you’re blind and have mistaken the door for a cell phone.) If these scribbles are any indication of where we are as a species, we’re doomed.

Wipe it up. Flush it down. Shut the fuck up. And please wash your hands.

Best,

Ladies Public Restroom Association

(photo: madisonwi/istockphoto)