The time we spend on the toilet is sacred. It's one of the few moments during the day -- unless you have rowdy relations constantly pounding on the door -- when you can truly be alone with your thoughts. Some of my best ideas have come when I was perched on the can. And if I happen to being drawing a blank, the restroom is always a good place to get some reading done. I'm not talking about War and Peace here, but a page or two of a book can easily be knocked off in a short to medium length potty session.
Sometimes, when I'm out and about and nature calls, I venture into public restrooms, which can range from utterly filthy to fairly pristine. Regardless of the state of the toilet I happen to be in, it's always nice to have something compelling to read in order to pass the time.
Sadly, the veracity of the claims carved into public bathroom stalls is dubious at best, and quite often nonsensical. The artistic expressions I'm usually treated to are simple stick figures humping or clumsily drawn genitalia, although now and then I do see some tremendously creative talent on display. I once came across a large sketch of a masterfully detailed vagina. The illustrator had obviously spent a lot of time perfecting his craft. He'd depicted the clitoris as a small boat with a tiny man sitting inside of it. The man had set up a fishing pole, with the end of his fishing line disappearing into the negative space surrounding him. It was a work of art.
If someone scratches a message into a bathroom wall that reads, "For a good time, call Evelyn," followed by a phone number, conventional wisdom would have it that a cruel prank is being played on the poor girl, or it's a false number, or revenge from a jilted lover. But what if that wasn't the case, and the usual base sexual exploits associated with such a note didn't apply at all?
I could jot down Evelyn's number and arrange to meet her the next day. We might wolf down a few fluffy blueberry pancakes for breakfast at her favorite café, and then walk along a sandy beach and soak our feet in the water. Later, we could attend the county fair and examine the prize hogs, laugh at the odd people tromping about, take a spin on the Ferris wheel, and then as night approaches, run through the city park with sparklers in our hands. At the end of a perfect day, I would turn to Evelyn and say, "Wow, I'm glad I wrote your number down. You really did show me a good time." Then she would give me a gentle smile, followed by a peck on my cheek, and reply, "Of course. That's why people call me."
The idea I'm trying to impart here is that if you have to scribble down bathroom graffiti, put some heart and truth into your work. The written material and frescos I'm provided with in communal restrooms almost never meet my expectations -- besides the little man on the boat, of course.
If you've penned a dirty limerick, make sure it's the funniest thing I've ever seen, and thank God I'm already sitting down with my trousers around my ankles, because otherwise I'd pee my pants from laughing so hard. Inspire me with a creative mural, a lovely poem (clean or naughty) or an original idea. I'm always on the hunt for something beautiful and interesting to read. We're only on this Earth for a short while, and every second counts, even when we're stuck sitting on the can.