The Spurious Plum

It's A Dead Man's Potty, Who Could Ask For More?

I'm a regular reader of Dad Gone Mad (you should totally be one too). In one of his recent posts he discussed the ever-so-delicate topic of evacuating ones bowels in a 7-11 bathroom. A tribulation I've (fortunately) never had to go through.

Unlike lots of other poor folks, the Spurious digestive system purrs like a kitten. People in the Family Spurious are all business about that kinda stuff. Because of this, I never really understood jokes about people reading on the can until college, when I had roommates who took FORTY-FIVE minutes to lay it down. All kinds of hitherto unthought of questions suddenly sprung up. Like how can you get comfy enough to read with your pants around your knees? And if you're only going to be in there 45 seconds, why even BRING a book?

Being thus blessed, I've only encountered two bathroom issues,

A.) The inability of the female populace to urinate without floating above the seat and flooding it.
and

B.) My amazing propensity for getting locked in men's rooms when I reeeeeeally have to pee.

My career of men's room infiltration and subsequent detention began in Jr. High, on a family vacation to San Francisco for 4th of July. I really, reeeeeeally had to pee and Papa Spurious stopped at a Taco Bell. The bathrooms wound up being the kind that eat quarters like a gumball machine, so after procuring a quarter from Papa Spurious (this indicates how bad I had to go. If Papa S. was willing to give me MONEY to pee, I must've really begged), I ran up to the women's room, almost dancing with I-need-to-pee fervor.

To my horror, the money part of the lock was taped over with masking tape on which some ass had written 'Out Of Service." I danced back to the car under the light of booming fireworks and asked my parents what to do. Mama Spurious suggested, " Just use the men's room..."

I wiggled with pee and disbelief. "Really?"

"Go ahead," said Mama S. conspiratorially, "No one'll see."

Squirming my way over to the men's room, I threw in my quarter, flung open the reinforced steel door and dashed inside. It smelled like burritos in the men's room. ALOT. Up for debate was whether the burrito smell came from burritos, or from someplace more nefarious. I didn't care. It was clean, and I had a lovely, relieving time.

After I washed up, I pushed on the steel door, feeling happy and ready to see some fireworks. Nothing happened. I turned the handle and pulled, just in case I was being a dork by pushing on a pull-type door. Nothing. Wiggled the handle, hoping the lock would catch. Nada. Shit.

I spent the next 20 minutes pounding on the steel door as fireworks boomed outside. I tried kicking, thumping and shouting at the top of my lungs for help, and got zilch. Just when I'd begun to think I'd be held captive for the rest of my days, the door suddenly opened. A very surprised looking man stood there, with fireworks exploding behind his head in the evening sky. I've never been so happy to see someone I didn't know in my entire life. He was my toilet savior.

Before he could get out more than,"Uhhhhh..." I dashed past him into the parking lot, embarrassed as hell, and hopped into the Spuriousmobile. "Finally!" shouted Papa S.

"I got locked in the men's room! I've been trying to get out for the last 20 minutes!"

Ah," said Mama S., " That's what took so long. We though you fell in."

"Why didn't you guys come check on me? Didn't you hear me? I was making deals with Greek gods offering up my firstborn child in a desperate plea for freedom! Why didn't you help?"

"Must've been the fireworks," said Papa pulling out of the parking lot, "We never heard a thing."

Because I was 13 and completely self-absorbed, it wasn't until weeks after the Taco Bell incident that I realized my savior had probably been trapped in the bathroom too, after I left. He's probably still there.

Since the fateful day when I lost my locked-in-a-men's-bathroom virginity, I've become a total trapped-in-a-men's-bathroom slut. I've gotten locked into more men's rooms than I can count. In Banana Republic. At the library. On a date at a fancy restaurant. On the 2nd floor of my high school, the list is endless.

It's not like I'm seeking out men's rooms on purpose either, I only use them when the women's room is 'Out of Service". Which is usually because some chick peed all over the seat.
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Random Fruit Fact: The Olallieberry

"Physically the Olallieberry looks like a classic blackberry. Genetically, however, the Olallieberry is approximately two-thirds blackberry and one-third European Red Raspberry. Eaten fresh, Olallieberries are excellent, however most are made into preserves and wine. "

Don't drink too much or you'll have to pee, and you never know where that'll take you. Learn more about the Olallieberry, here.

Posted by Spurious Nurse at 5/14/2005 08:56:00 PM