Another hilarious article from cracked
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Public Restrooms
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Why are they called Restrooms? The last thing you are going to do in there is "have a rest". Some people are really busy in them - cutting holes in the cubicle partitions, topping and tailing the assortment of cocks presented therein etc etc. Right Wilksy-Baby?
I miss the good old days when the toilets had a permanent attendant, who'd make sure you were at least dropping your trousers in a sea of piss, shit, vomit AND a bit of disinfectant, rather than just the first 3.
Well, I used to, until last Summer...
So, I was on my hols, motorcycling along the coast from France, through Monaco into Italy. I can't recall exactly where this was, so Wilksy Baby, don't book a flight just yet. Anyway, after a hard day on the road, I pulled over in a small town, busting for a piss. I trundled along the Prom, and saw a little public shithouse (see, isn't that better then "restroom"?).
I parked up, decided to have a squirt, then have a kip on the beach for an hour before moving on.
The shithouse was a tiny, but scrupulously clean affair, just big enough to have a crap-trap and a urinal for 2 people. Very snug.
An old boy stood guard on his plate of coins on a table out front, his mop held by his side like a rifle. (Hmmm, this was Italy, so probably better than ANY of those idiots have ever held a rifle)
I paid to piss up front, neglecting to ask for a VAT receipt for my accounts. The old boy immediately asked if I was Russian. Now, why this is, I have no idea, loads of people kept asking me that in Italy.
"Certainly not, you dago fool. I'm British donchaknow, British I say. Now out of my way, and allow me to micturate, before I let off this cap gun and watch you flee into the hills with your tail between your legs."
"Aha, Breeeteesh. A-vary good. Come in, come in"
He led me into the bog, which as I have pointed out, was slightly smaller than my cloakroom at home. With a grand flourish of his arm he pointed out the urinal, which was 2' in front of me.
Thanking him as he left, I unzipped Percy, and began to empty my bladder with a happy sigh.
At that moment, who should reappear round the corner, but the bog attendant, obviously doing a "routine" mopping.
"Ah, Breeteeesh, I a-like a Breeteesh" he enthused, as I squeezed myself against the wall to let him into the confined space, careful not to let my helmet touch the porcelain.
Then he leans across to demonstrate the flushing mechanism on the urinal.
"Steady on old chap" I said, "We invented this sort of thing you know. You fuckers still shit in holes in the floor" (conveniently forgetting that the Romans were the ones who "invented this sort of thing" Meh!)
"You good Breeteesh. You good strong man. I a-like good strong Breeteesh a-man. Breeteesh, moto, strong. I a-like."
Then came his killer line:
"You have-a nice big strong cock" accompanied by the obligatory hand-in-the-crook-of-the-elbow gesture "Yeeeesss, nice BIIIIG a-cock. You a-like Italia mens?"
I'm afraid to say that I dribbled piss all over that man's ultra-clean bog floor as I headed for the exit, leaving him wailing in Dago behind me. He even had the nerve to shout "Hey, you a-come back later, we go out-a, have-a some-a-thing to eat and a-drink-a?"
Not on your nelly, you dirty old scrote. What's the world coming to when you can't gaze around at a sparkling shithouse, impressed by the novelty of one that doesn't mean a full de-contamination if you pinch a loaf in there? Apparently it means in Italian, "I like your bog, I would like to stick my veiny stump up your rusty sheriff's badge".
I was outraged.So I woke up,rolled over and who was lying next to me? Only Bonnie Langford!
I nearly broke her back
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I had to stop at a 'rest area' coming home from Tennessee last weekend, I was hoping to 'hold it' for the other 3 hours of a drive(but that wasn't going to happen, to much cheap whiskey the night before). Upon walking in, it was sparkling clean, smelled of pine sol and floor wax. Incredibly clean , in fact more so than many friends houses....
No annoying attendent to have to pay(I've only seen them at titty bars here), after finishing up and washing my hands - I discovered they only had air dryers(normally I hate these things because they don't work). So I figured what the hell I'd try it out anyways(as opposed to shaking my hands like an epileptic). When it cut on, it was like a F5 tornado. I could literally see the skin on my hands being pushed away from the funnel cloud coming out of the hand dryer, in less than 3 seconds my hands were dried completely.
So in recap, Tennessee is a nice place to shit.Enjoying a rum and coke, just didn't have any coke...
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Bless you, you don't need to use your foot. There's a little lever, or sometimes a chain hanging down. Depress this (or pull the chain) and the stool will be flushed away. Simple.
Only ever use your foot if the offending article is sticking out of the pan like the Bismarck and you have to break its back to get rid of it. Even then, I have to say that I'd rather nip outside and borrow someone's bicycle pump than stamping it down.
(Major Tip: If you do happen to "borrow" a bicycle pump, just deliver the coup de grace quickly and without fuss. Whatever happens, DO NOT see what will happen if you give it a couple of quick pumps...
It's hard enough trying to nonchalently return a bike pump you've just clubbed Mr Hankie with, it's nigh on impossible if the pump has been used to boil the bogwater up like Bikini Atoll, plastering the whole toilet with sweetcorn husks and eau-de-colon.)So I woke up,rolled over and who was lying next to me? Only Bonnie Langford!
I nearly broke her back
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Depends on the day and what kind of a mood I'm in.
And when I'm at a urinal with a handle, I never touch the handle, so I never flush. If someone else wants to touch one of those handles, more power to them. Most places now seem to have the automatic flush, but not all.I feel my soul go cold... only the dead are smiling.
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