THE BATHROOM BLOG
with Barry Dingle
You know exactly who I'm talking about -- those skeezy dudes at the urinal who see their dick and feel the need to spit, the five year-olds who haven't learned how to swallow despite their years of fellatial experience. Good grief.
Don't be fooled. The urinal is not the only stage for this kind of sophomoric action. Toilet spitters are just as prevalent. Ladies, I don't know what the story is in there but I'm sure there's some nappy-headed hoes gracing your beautiful pristine bowls with their AIDS spit.
Honestly, they are the Dilaphasauruses of the public restroom. Disgusting. We should deal with them in the same way a Velociraptor deals with a Dilaphasaurus... Spit fire diarrhea down their throats. Yes. That's what we shall do.
1.30.09
Friday, January 30, 2009
Friday, January 23, 2009
cowboy hats
THE BATHROOM BLOG
with Barry Dingle
Yeah, I've got problems. I'll be the first to tell you. Some I can control, some I can't. The worst, however, are the problems my obsessive-compulsive mind thinks it can control but most assuredly can't. This is one of those problems.
Those bastard ass paper ass gaskets in the bathroom. Those godforsaken cowboy hats. I understand the need for public restroom toilet seat protectors. I'm for them. But it's 2009 and we've yet to perfect them. That's a crime against man.
So I don't know about you but I'm very particular about how I sit on one of those bad daddies. Now, if you look closely, there are a couple of perforations made for the convenience of ripping apart, allowing your fecal matter a straight shot to the glory bowl. I like to punch out at least one of the perforations before I get down and dirty. Primarily, I do this because the idea of unloading and that door perhaps not opening up, scares the shit out of me, but not enough to break the seal, obviously. The minute chance of a canopy of steaming stink is enough to make me go the extra mile and provide a pre-made slide for log-jamming. Number two, I don't want the fatsos next to me to hear the ripping of the paper because then they know I'm shitting and that is socially unacceptable.
So, here's my deal. I punch it out and it hangs down. The problem occurs if that tip touches the water. It begins to suck up water and pulls the whole damn thing in before I can get my pants off and plant my tubby ass. Not only do I waste paper but I look like an ass in front of the toilet paper.
Figure it out, Paper Seat Protector Co. Because we are living in Back to the Future Part II times and I need some up to date toilet technology. The art of defecation has come a long way since the Middle Ages and I'll be damned if I let you or any other asshole mess with that progress.
1.23.09
with Barry Dingle
Yeah, I've got problems. I'll be the first to tell you. Some I can control, some I can't. The worst, however, are the problems my obsessive-compulsive mind thinks it can control but most assuredly can't. This is one of those problems.
Those bastard ass paper ass gaskets in the bathroom. Those godforsaken cowboy hats. I understand the need for public restroom toilet seat protectors. I'm for them. But it's 2009 and we've yet to perfect them. That's a crime against man.
So I don't know about you but I'm very particular about how I sit on one of those bad daddies. Now, if you look closely, there are a couple of perforations made for the convenience of ripping apart, allowing your fecal matter a straight shot to the glory bowl. I like to punch out at least one of the perforations before I get down and dirty. Primarily, I do this because the idea of unloading and that door perhaps not opening up, scares the shit out of me, but not enough to break the seal, obviously. The minute chance of a canopy of steaming stink is enough to make me go the extra mile and provide a pre-made slide for log-jamming. Number two, I don't want the fatsos next to me to hear the ripping of the paper because then they know I'm shitting and that is socially unacceptable.
So, here's my deal. I punch it out and it hangs down. The problem occurs if that tip touches the water. It begins to suck up water and pulls the whole damn thing in before I can get my pants off and plant my tubby ass. Not only do I waste paper but I look like an ass in front of the toilet paper.
Figure it out, Paper Seat Protector Co. Because we are living in Back to the Future Part II times and I need some up to date toilet technology. The art of defecation has come a long way since the Middle Ages and I'll be damned if I let you or any other asshole mess with that progress.
1.23.09
Friday, January 16, 2009
what grade am i in?
THE BATHROOM BLOG
with Barry Dingle
I love bananas and I love chocolate pudding. I love dipping my bananas in my chocolate pudding like the overgrown fat kid that I am. That's an erroneous fact. You know what I hate? Stupid ass signs in the restroom that try to dictate social conduct. Oh, fatboy's got pounds and brains.
Honestly, what grade am I in? Should I put an earthquake kit under my desk and start wearing deodorant? Actually, an earthquake kit probably isn't a bad idea. But come on, is it truly necessary to have a "NO SMOKING" sign in the bathroom?
Every day, every goddamn day, I see that unholy crossed out cigarette. I don't even smoke. I think it's gross but sweet baby Jesus, there are so many things wrong with the placement of this miniature monstrosity.
First of all, are we really concerned about people smoking in the men's room? Is that the cool place to go smoke if the stairwell is occupied? There is an entire park outside where every single nicotine fiend goes to get a fix. The whole point of them going for a smoke is to take a break and visit the outside world. Why the hell would anyone want to go from their baby cubicle to an effing corporate bathroom to enjoy a smoke? Asinine.
Aren't we all old enough to where we understand that smoking in the bathroom is not particularly acceptable? In fact, last time I checked, it's common sense. I'm considering taking up smoking just so I can light up in the restroom and laugh maniacally as I wipe my ass. "I got you good, you swine!" Hey, it doesn't say I can't burn piles of hair in the hallway. Hurry, get the Persian guy and a razor.
I don't want to live in a culture where we go out of our way to tell someone that a habit they have is undesirable. Hell, why don't we put a "No Fat Dudes Dropping the Kids Off at the Pool" sign in there? Every time a smoker walks into the commode, he's constantly reminded of his dirty vice. He gets so worked up he can't pee next to the guy at the urinal. So he goes into the stall and tries to take a leak but ends up shitting his pants because his nerves are all over the place. He doesn't deserve that.
What about the kids? When they walk in and see that, they ask what it means. And we have to explain what exactly is not allowed. So, in theory, this moronic sign is introducing our children to cigarettes at an earlier age. Ho-hum.
It's bullshit. I am a man. An almost fully developed man and yet, you treat me like the fat pudding-stained mouth bastard that I once was. We need to have some faith in the human race, though they can be wacky, and stop trying to dictate every mundane detail of human life. I get that we're Americans and we're superior and all that nonsense but come on, Mr. Gorbachev. Tear down that sign.
1.16.09
with Barry Dingle
I love bananas and I love chocolate pudding. I love dipping my bananas in my chocolate pudding like the overgrown fat kid that I am. That's an erroneous fact. You know what I hate? Stupid ass signs in the restroom that try to dictate social conduct. Oh, fatboy's got pounds and brains.
Honestly, what grade am I in? Should I put an earthquake kit under my desk and start wearing deodorant? Actually, an earthquake kit probably isn't a bad idea. But come on, is it truly necessary to have a "NO SMOKING" sign in the bathroom?
Every day, every goddamn day, I see that unholy crossed out cigarette. I don't even smoke. I think it's gross but sweet baby Jesus, there are so many things wrong with the placement of this miniature monstrosity.
First of all, are we really concerned about people smoking in the men's room? Is that the cool place to go smoke if the stairwell is occupied? There is an entire park outside where every single nicotine fiend goes to get a fix. The whole point of them going for a smoke is to take a break and visit the outside world. Why the hell would anyone want to go from their baby cubicle to an effing corporate bathroom to enjoy a smoke? Asinine.
Aren't we all old enough to where we understand that smoking in the bathroom is not particularly acceptable? In fact, last time I checked, it's common sense. I'm considering taking up smoking just so I can light up in the restroom and laugh maniacally as I wipe my ass. "I got you good, you swine!" Hey, it doesn't say I can't burn piles of hair in the hallway. Hurry, get the Persian guy and a razor.
I don't want to live in a culture where we go out of our way to tell someone that a habit they have is undesirable. Hell, why don't we put a "No Fat Dudes Dropping the Kids Off at the Pool" sign in there? Every time a smoker walks into the commode, he's constantly reminded of his dirty vice. He gets so worked up he can't pee next to the guy at the urinal. So he goes into the stall and tries to take a leak but ends up shitting his pants because his nerves are all over the place. He doesn't deserve that.
What about the kids? When they walk in and see that, they ask what it means. And we have to explain what exactly is not allowed. So, in theory, this moronic sign is introducing our children to cigarettes at an earlier age. Ho-hum.
It's bullshit. I am a man. An almost fully developed man and yet, you treat me like the fat pudding-stained mouth bastard that I once was. We need to have some faith in the human race, though they can be wacky, and stop trying to dictate every mundane detail of human life. I get that we're Americans and we're superior and all that nonsense but come on, Mr. Gorbachev. Tear down that sign.
1.16.09
Friday, January 9, 2009
what i want to do
THE BATHROOM BLOG
with Barry Dingle
Maybe girls have this problem. I don't know. I don't know much about women and perhaps that's why I blog about toilets.
When you're a full grown man, and you're trying to make your peace with God in a public stall, you have to deal with anonymous walk-ins. Then the question becomes: Do I play it safe and camp out even though I'm finished, or do I storm the wash area like Normandy and allow someone who has an equally stinky anus to judge me for the evil I just unleashed onto the world?
Nine times out of ten I sit there and wait. That's because I'm a big pussy. Do I really think that I'm going to get a spanking for excessive flatulence, or failing to perform a courtesy flush because it's an automated toilet (a whole other post altogether), or because my grunts were louder that usual? Sadly, yes.
But if I wasn't me, if I was some superhero icon that had the ability to mold the world with my fingertips, I would have some fun with assholes like me.
I would walk in while another man was skipping rocks and I would make use of the urinal. I would wash my hands and open the door. But I wouldn't leave. The door would shut and I would still be there. And when that stank ass came out, I would stare at him with the creepiest of smiles and really soak in the whole experience. That moment would be ripe for a future painting, or an allegory to the yuppie scum who think their shit doesn't stink. It would be gorgeous.
So boys, and girls too for that matter, next time you're messing yourself in a public restroom, come out after everyone leaves and look for my face. It will be the one that haunts your dreams until you come to terms with your ass or begin to suffer from entropy's sweet senility.
1.9.09
with Barry Dingle
Maybe girls have this problem. I don't know. I don't know much about women and perhaps that's why I blog about toilets.
When you're a full grown man, and you're trying to make your peace with God in a public stall, you have to deal with anonymous walk-ins. Then the question becomes: Do I play it safe and camp out even though I'm finished, or do I storm the wash area like Normandy and allow someone who has an equally stinky anus to judge me for the evil I just unleashed onto the world?
Nine times out of ten I sit there and wait. That's because I'm a big pussy. Do I really think that I'm going to get a spanking for excessive flatulence, or failing to perform a courtesy flush because it's an automated toilet (a whole other post altogether), or because my grunts were louder that usual? Sadly, yes.
But if I wasn't me, if I was some superhero icon that had the ability to mold the world with my fingertips, I would have some fun with assholes like me.
I would walk in while another man was skipping rocks and I would make use of the urinal. I would wash my hands and open the door. But I wouldn't leave. The door would shut and I would still be there. And when that stank ass came out, I would stare at him with the creepiest of smiles and really soak in the whole experience. That moment would be ripe for a future painting, or an allegory to the yuppie scum who think their shit doesn't stink. It would be gorgeous.
So boys, and girls too for that matter, next time you're messing yourself in a public restroom, come out after everyone leaves and look for my face. It will be the one that haunts your dreams until you come to terms with your ass or begin to suffer from entropy's sweet senility.
1.9.09
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