Ok, I guess it's time for the footbath story.
My sister and I were travelling in an unnamed country where the custom in public restrooms is to install a foot bath (that looks like a very low-slung toilet) near a toilet -- when there is a toilet.
My sister found herself in some stomach distress after we ate at a questionable food stand that day. We stopped at a bar so she could use the bathroom and we could get some soda or something to settle her stomach. I should note that in this particular country it is not customary for women to visit bars. Anyway, she's about to explode and she finds the bathroom, which is actually kind of nice and new in that there is a door on it, but she can't find the light switch. She feels her way around and thinks she's found the toilet -- just in time -- and gets her business done. Just as she's leaving, a man comes in and flicks on the light. It's then that she realizes she's just taken a **** in the foot bath. And foot baths don't flush.
She came back out to the bar embarrassed and told me what happened. I nearly wet my pants laughing at the image of some poor unsuspecting guy walking in there to wash his feet and surprise! We got out of there fast.
Why not just keep a shovel near the toilet, Ticomaya, and scoop out the largest chunks and put them in the wastebasket?
Am I the only one who comes up with these practical solutions?
I can NOT believe, there are 5 continues pages of **** talk...
Freeduck, no wonder my feet have this lingering odor.
That was your sister?
gustavratzenhofer wrote:Freeduck, no wonder my feet have this lingering odor.
That was your sister?
Yes, but you have to forgive her because she was sick. And if she ever makes it on to this forum she's going to kick my ass.
I always thought that was the strangest looking soap I'd ever encountered.
Did you know that if you pig out on Oreos and bean dip and then accidentally vomit on the floor near the toilet, the next morning it will look just like a dried up pile of crap?
I learned that in college. Who says you can't get a good education at a state school?
Here's a story I wrote two years ago, suitable to the topic. Not a true one, but oh, I wish.
THE GREAT CIRCUS PARADE
Two squad cars crawled one-hundred feet in front of Pack 681 of the Shorewood Cub Scouts, who, leading the procession, held a banner on which they had painted deformed animals, a cannon firing a man ten times its size, and fighter planes unloading bombs on a burning village. Among those following the Scouts were the adulterous mayor waving from the back seat of a Cadillac Convertible, tumblers, jugglers, fire-eaters, a baton twirler, a team of Clydesdale horses, platforms featuring acrobats and contortionists, and elephants with pasty women in saris atop them. The main attraction was a majestic lion in a rolling cage painted and ornamented to look like a king’s carriage. The lion stared blankly at skyscrapers, traffic lights, and the throngs of onlookers that murmured, applauded, and gave him a warm welcome to downtown Milwaukee.
Blooper the Clown handed his first balloon animal of the day, a wiener-dog, to a boy whose glasses were wider than his face. Blooper marched on, entertaining the crowd with exaggerated leg kicks and swinging arms. The familiar motions of his routine assuaged the symptoms of his hangover until the sun broke through the clouds and bit into his neck like a vampire. Sweat matted the hair under his fluorescent blue wig; his skin marinated beneath his plaid topcoat, polka-dot shirt, and billowing pink pants. The back of his pasty tongue swelled and a dull pain sharpened in his belly. Unable to maintain his bravado, he dropped his hands to his waist, slowing to a walk. Then he stopped completely, as a scalding fart rocked his anus.
He knew a severe penance was upon him when he awoke that morning and pulled his arm out from under the head of a teenage girl with a baton between her breasts, her fried hair plastered in sharp angles against her nylon softball jacket. Last night after the public exhibition in Veterans Park had ended, the avenues between the portable homes of the circus-folk buzzed with bad jokes, Frisbees, dominoes, friendly dogs, AC/DC, bratwurst, pills, beer, and wine. Blooper buzzed with pills, beer, and wine, one arm around a giggling girl with no name, the other around a jug of Livingston Cellars Zinfandel.
As the frequency of his gaseous eruptions increased, so did his panic—he had yet to reach Fifth Avenue, the halfway mark, where the parade would turn right, then return east for two miles. His green rubber nose restricted his breathing, forcing him to pant. He unbuttoned his collar, pulled the sleeves of his topcoat up over his elbows, and rolled back the sleeves of his polka-dot shirt. The St. Francis High School Marching Band, having exhausted their three-song repertoire, broke into an encore of “Louie, Louie,” and railed his temples. The thought of bratwurst floating in a puddle of zinfandel turned his rotting insides. The mound of fresh Clydesdale **** he stepped in sent him staggering to the curb.
The wretchedness behind his painted, clown-grin, twisted his face into that of a demon. He lurched forward, catching a mouthful of vomit between his lips. Most of it he forced back down, but thick yellow threads spooled from his chin and the corners of his mouth. He wobbled toward a nearby trashcan, casting a wave of trauma over all the children and many of the adults he passed.
“Mommy, what’s wrong with that clown?” Twin girls buried their faces in their mother’s sundress.
“My God,” said a grown man.
Leaning over the trashcan, Blooper saw half-eaten hotdogs and empty soda cans teeming with yellow-jackets. He closed his eyes, waiting for the acid in his gut to burn his tonsils. But, surrendering to his anxiety, he calmed and the moment passed. He looked up, saw the swinging tails of the elephants at the back of the parade, wiped his face on his sleeve, and jogged.
Though his nausea had subsided, jogging only encouraged the mutiny of his digestive organs. They squirmed and gurgled, firing methane bubbles out of his sputtering rectum—warning shots, urging him to seek cover before the bombs bays opened. He caught up with the fire-eaters, passed them, and when he reached Broadway, he cut right, leaped over a sawhorse, and shoved his way through the crowd.
Beyond Mason St. the crowd of parade goers-thinned. Blooper began to sprint, frantically searching for a restaurant or a gas station. To his despair, many businesses were closed for the event. He ran another two blocks before he spotted a savings bank with people inside. Losing grip of his bowels, he squeezed the cheeks of his buttocks together and pushed through the revolving doors.
“Where’s the goddamn bathroom?”
A long line of customers, waiting for the next available teller, saw the sweaty, bug-eyed clown bouncing on his toes, and raised their trembling arms above their heads. A middle-aged woman in a red business skirt and matching jacket hid behind her desk. A pregnant woman started to cry.
“Everybody calm down,” Blooper ordered, cutting to the front of the line. Everybody fell to their knees and laid on the floor. “Where is it,” he shouted at a young, Asian-American teller. Her upper-lip quivered; her hand slid under the counter and pressed the silent alarm. He pretended to compose himself. “Look, I know I’m not an employee, but if you don’t show me where it is this instant, you’ll be cleaning up after me.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.
Blooper pounded his fists on the counter. His pulsating sphincter told him that further negotiation was a waste of precious time. He dodged the bodies sprawled on the carpet and ran outside.
Hurtling down the pavement again, he turned right on Kilbourn. Apartments lined both sides of the boulevard; the next block was Pere Marquette Park. He rounded the next corner onto Milwaukee Avenue and saw a green awning hanging at the end of the block. Starbucks—the perfect atmosphere for explosive diarrhea.
The Starbucks clientele saw the clown rush to the back of the coffee shop, but it was worth a dry quip at most, and they resumed their gossip. When two howling squad cars screeched to the curb, however, they shut up. Four police officers, all with flattops and carefully groomed moustaches, exited their cruisers nonchalantly, offsetting their dramatic arrival, because it was cool to do that. Once inside, they were rigid and imposing, profiling the customers through dark sunglasses. The tallest officer went to the counter. He spoke to a purple-haired girl in a green apron, who pointed to a sign that read, “Restrooms.”
Topcoat, wig, and rubber nose at his feet, Blooper massaged his scalp. He embraced his suffering, now that it was free to run its course, rolled his head back and sighed. He longed to be in his trailer, to sit shirtless in front of the fan, downing pints of ice water. He would sleep through the fireworks tonight and, tomorrow, listen to mystery-theater on AM radio in a caravan due for Minneapolis. A good life, good enough, he thought, his sick farts echoing off the tiles. He reached into his topcoat, pulled out a pink balloon, and inflated it. He held the air in, squeezing the flaccid neck between his thumb and middle finger. Then he let go.
Woah, I didn't realize that would take up so much space. Sorry.
Garamel... are you from MIlwaukee?
You know the Circus Parade is about to become a thing of the past... but they are planning on immortalizing it in statue... right next to the new art museum... talk about tacky.
Classic. They get a world famous artist to construct an architectural masterpiece, and then decide to put a statue of Clydesdales taking a dump right next to it!
I was in Milwaukee a few years back and ate in a German restaurant that sold a lot of beer steins. I think it was called Maders or something like that.
I wasn't very impressed.
I don't recall much else about the city. I do remember it had buildings and I recall seeing water.
A sharp memory you have, Gustav. Milwaukee consists only of Maders and Lake Michigan.
I was born in the kitchen of Maders, educated in the dining room, and swam away when I turned eighteen.
gustavratzenhofer wrote:I was in Milwaukee a few years back and ate in a German restaurant that sold a lot of beer steins. I think it was called Maders or something like that.
I wasn't very impressed.
I don't recall much else about the city. I do remember it had buildings and I recall seeing water.
Gus, you should make your way back here next summer for German Fest... make sure to pack your lederhosen!
Oh, and there are much better German restaurants then Maders.
I remember drinking a beer one time called "Milwaukee's Best"
Drier than a popcorn fat and weaker than a whisper.
