Here, sit around the fire and we can all tell gross stories. I’ll go first since this is my damn blog and I can carry on about whatever I want. Here’s something you never wanted to know about me: I have IBS. That’s Irritable Bowel Syndrome for the blissfully uninitiated. My friend used to call it the “Shittin’ Nerves.” Every time something strange or stressful happens, I can bank on spending hours in the bathroom. For those of you not familiar with IBS, here’s what it feels like:
That just about sums it up.
Now, if you suffer from IBS, Crohn’s, UC or a related disorder, I’m preaching to the choir here about the importance of always being prepared. One roll of toilet paper is not prepared. This is prepared…
Now that’s more like it.
You need decent quality toilet paper to get through the day with IBS. You can’t use “Hemorrhoid Ripper” brand and the paper itself should at least be two ply. There’s no sense in using some whisper thin shit ticket to wipe your ass when there’s a serious risk of accidentally performing a digital rectal exam. Now, once you solve the toilet paper issue, you have to get around the boredom factor. I always keep a full complement of reading materials in my bathroom. It’s not for you backed up people. No, it’s for those times when I’m compelled to stay. I will not have you hanging around looking up your horoscope waiting for the big splash when I’m out here hopping up and down on one leg. Look, if you’re constipated, the only thing you’re getting from me is a glass of Metamucil, 16 prunes and a suppository. Get the hell out of that bathroom and let the urgent cases go.
Oh no, not you. You stay right there. There is no escaping in this house.
Toilets are just damn awkward and ugly things. They’re damn uncomfortable after a few minutes too. How some people just sit there voluntarily for hours is beyond my comprehension. I’m especially mystified when I go to a public bathroom and somebody is in there taking forever on the damn toilet. Hello? Ever hear the expression “Shit or get off the pot?” What the hell are you doing in there that it takes 40 minutes? Even at my worst I get off for a breather, so to speak. I think the worst are the toilet talkers. Look, IBS forces me to multi-task in the strangest of locations, but the one thing I don’t really want to do is carry on a lengthy chat with someone while I’m taking a dump. I think those that do should invest in the Verizon Endoscopy Phone. It actually allows you to shove a small camera up your ass and transmit a colonoscopy to the person on the other line. After all, why deprive them of this special moment?
There’s no way to improve the appearance of the average toilet. Nothing, not even fresh flowers can hide why we’re all here.
Who are you kidding? That’s not recycling, that’s a reason to move before the property values drop.
Who put that shit on the front lawn? (Hee hee, I just couldn’t resist.) That never looks good. It really doesn’t. Not only that, but you will be forever mocked by the neighborhood children who stop by just to call you those “toilet yard people.” I’m pretty sure this violates HOA regulations in planned communities, and pisses the neighbors off to no end in others. I know of at least one Illinois neighborhood where they are just not going to put up with this crap anymore.
I wonder how much time I’ve wasted sitting on the damn toilet throughout my life. I want to know, but I don’t want to know. I’m stuck here for the time being. There’s no cure for IBS, although a million websites sincerely want you to believe there is. Don’t buy into the miracle cure or potion of the hour. There are still snake oil salesmen out there, only now they operate in cyberspace.
Cures everything, including all those unnecessary fives in your wallet.
The moral of this story is Don’t Have Any Roommates. No, I’m not kidding about this. Look, if you can afford it (unlikely in America, but you can dream) avoid living with friends, family or roommates. Or, you could live with other people, but try to avoid sharing the bathroom. The thing is, you will go into the bathroom, take care of business and lo and behold, there’s only one sheet of toilet paper on the roll. You will scream in anguish, “Who the hell didn’t change the roll?!” The answer is always, “I didn’t change it because there was still toilet paper left on it.”
Still paper left on it? That’s not toilet paper on the roll, that’s one fucking sheet. I’d ask who the hell is that damn lazy that they can’t change the roll, but you all know the answer. In fact, you probably just looked over your monitor at the offending party just now. Yeah, you! One sheet is NOT toilet paper on the roll, you lazy piece of shit! Change the fucking roll, it’s not rocket science. Well, maybe it is for you, dumbass. To anyone and everyone who’s pulled that trick in their lifetime: Fuck you, asshole.
As soon as my ass dries or I get a hold of a tissue, I’m finding you and feeding you that cardboard, asshole.
I’m still here. I’d bring in a laptop, but knowing my luck it would catch fire, burn my lap and then I’d have one hell of a time explaining to the ambulance crew what I’m doing with third degree burns on my legs sitting on the toilet. Life with IBS is embarrassing enough as it is without adding insult to injury. I’ll just have to wait this out. You all know where to find me, only please, for the love of God, knock first.
Too late. Oops.