This piece was original published by Clark Schpiell Productions on January 24, 2005. My desire for this Utopian future is even greater today than it was then.
I have had the misfortune in my professional life to witness, or overhear as the case may be, heinous breaches of poop etiquette. The following represent but a few of the offenses that I've documented at the Peevery.
I hate it when I go into the bathroom at work to take a crap and someone else comes in when I am halfway through, so I have to wait until she leaves before I can finish, but she is waiting until I leave, and I don't want to just sit there in silence, waiting and waiting when it is that bitch who should leave since I was there first. Poop etiquette dictates that she should stop after the pee and come back later when the bathroom is unoccupied.
I walked into the bathroom. It reeked of bleach, so at least I knew it is clean. As I headed into the stall, I caught a faint whiff of someone's doody, so I pulled my shirt up over my nose and breathed shallowly. As I went about my business (#1 only), I heard a flush. Then I heard the tp holder rolling as Crapper went in for a wipe. Then I heard it rolling again. Then I heard it rolling again, and again, and again. Crapper wiped no less than five times in an obvious breach of poop etiquette. She should have remained silent until the other occupant (me!) left the bathroom.
It wasn't over yet. I flushed and pulled up my pants when I heard her flush again. I thought, surely she wasn't planning to exit her stall while I was in there; the most flagrant violation yet of poop etiquette. I left my stall and she walked brazenly out of hers. I had to see Crapper's true identity! And it still wasn't over. She started talking to me!
As a final, private farewell to [my former employer], I thought I'd take a tidy little crap before heading off to my going away happy hour. Well, this place is not one to be reckoned with. As I was making those straining sounds (you know what I mean), I heard a flush from the handicapped stall - the one where you never know if someone is in there or not unless they make some noise. How perversely appropriate that my last moments here are marred by yet another breach of poop etiquette. That bitch should have made some noise when she realized I was staying around for Act II.
Why is it that floating some logs at work has to be so fraught with tension? Why has no one yet conceived of an easier way to pinch off a loaf while on the clock?
I have found a better way. The fundamental requirement for a place to poop in peace is that one must be free from the fear that another person will walk in mid-poop. Everyone poops but no one wants to know about it.
There should be a separate bathroom for pooping. A doody den. A caca castle. A poop pagoda.
The thing is, you don't necessarily want someone to know what your intentions are, so it isn't like having a third door with a picture of blobby brown shape on it is a reasonable alternative, besides, as a woman, I don't really want to poop where a man has pooped. Men are nasty creatures. Entering and exiting the poop pagoda is something that should be discreet without making you feel like you are doing something wrong. Pooping is not wrong and there is no reason why you shouldn't be able to drop the kids off at the pool when you need to. When you have a turtlehead poking out, what are you supposed to do, push it back in? I don't recommend it.
We need to be able to enter the bathroom like anyone else, but at the back of the bathroom there should be another door, clearly labeled as the Poop Pagoda. Once you are in the bathroom, there is no need to be coy. You have to make a deposit in the turd bank? Head for the Poop Pagoda. If you are feeling shy and there are people at the sink or at the urinal, slip into a stall until they are gone and then make your way to the Shangri-la of shitting.
Once inside, simply slide the latch closed and the entrance to the Poop Pagoda is marked Occupied or Occupado, depending upon your region of the country. A short hallway leads you to a small, sound-proof room. Nothing from the outside is heard by you and no sounds you make are heard on the outside. You are able to poop in peace. Feel free to grunt and squirm and do whatever is necessary to get the Browns to the Super Bowl. There are conveniently-placed hand grips should you need extra leverage.
No need to hurry out of there as in the regular bathroom. This is a time for meditation and reflection. The soft lights and the flickering flames of the scented candles (for aromatherapy and also because, seriously, light a match) create a welcoming atmosphere. The white noise of the air purifier soothes your soul and cleanses the air of your foul stench.
When you have completed your mission -- when the dirty bomb has been dropped on Bowl-ivia -- you will never have to experience the agonizing fear of not having something with which to wipe your ass. There is always toilet paper in the Poop Pagoda. There are even heated, moistened butt wipes for those extra squirty times.
Once you have rid yourself of skid marks and pulled up your pants, you have your choice of hand sanitizers, all automatic and motion-detected. You don't have to touch a single surface with your tainted mitts. Old fashioned soap and water? Got it. Anti-bacterial hand gel? Got it. Germ-killing nuclear radiation booth? Got it.
As you exit the Poop Pagoda out the rear door (all too appropriate), you set off a chain reaction. The entrance is unlocked. The toilet flushes again, just in case. A fresh butt gasket is placed on the seat. A fine mist of disinfectant drifts down over the room. The Poop Pagoda readies itself for the next occupant while you traverse a long hallway that ends in a different part of the building. No one knows from where you came or what you were doing. This is the gift I give to you. May a peaceful shit be yours.