Today Mrs. Canecutter and I took a drive and dropped by a friend's Yoga/Jewelry/kinda shop where she lets me sell my cartoons, or at least the ones that don't include cussin/drankin/smokin/fightin type things. Every couple of months it's worth a run out there to restock and harvest a little paycheck.
This time, we're talking, and BAM I take a gut check. "Sorry, I gotta hit the bathroom, like, now." Storeowner is from South America and she knows exactly what's up, points me down the hall.
Men's room is locked. One stall women's room. So I identify with my X chromosome and leap inside.
What follows next is the experience of being a Golden Corral soft-serve dispenser as a field-trip's worth of middle schoolers takes turns hanging on the lever, then start coming back for more. It's a rope. Halfway through, some dude tries to get in the bathroom. Nah. I am not moving and leaving a slug-trail of butt-goo in this carpeted building. Takes forever and uses a ton of paper.
Three flushes and there's still a chunk on the back of the bowl. I have claimed this toilet for the King of Spain.
I get back and the women are looking at bracelets. Much ribaldry. I start to talk, pivot, and sprint back. Fast work this time, I just blast a little consommé and done.
Chunky speck is still there after fourth flush.
If we had been on the road, even 5 minutes from an empty stall, woulda been baaaaad, man.