I never want to be in that situation. Or any of the ones below.
This kind of goes hand-in-hand with #2, however, you can run away from the filth. The stank stays with you. It gets in your clothes, your hair, your pores. It could be days later and the wrong movement could trigger the release of some previously trapped odor from a fold in your jacket. I walk into that bathroom at work and, more often than not, slam into a wall of unbearable heat and the foulest stench this side of a ten day old corpse rotting in a vat of spoiled milk. I don’t need that shit.
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I work in an auto factory. Every so often, at break time, I can’t get to a urinal in time so I’m forced to enter one of the stalls to piss. Satan lives there. Hour after hour I watch the fattest, sweatiest, hairiest, douchebags on the planet file up the stairs to take out the issues in their life on the first available toilet. I’ve opened doors to reveal nothing less than a feces-filled crime scene. People have been fired for less.
The slightest chance that this horrific son of a bitch could exist will keep me away for the rest of my life. I’ve had nightmares about some of the diapers I’ve changed, can you imagine the torment this would cause me? .
I wonder what kind of asshole the guy is that first tried this. If I cut a hole in the wall and put my dick in it, maybe whoever is in the stall next to me will blow me. What. The. Fuck. How horny to you have to be to stick your cock in a hole and just hope for the best? I would murder this dude, and probably the next 12 people I ran into after such nonsense.
There are some people that consider bathroom graffiti a form of art. Fuck them. You know what I think about if I go into a stall and see dozens of “art” projects covering the walls? I imagine how many ball sacks have been hovering in the exact same spot my boys are. I imagine how many sweaty asses have stained this specific seat. I imagine how much effort it would take for me to finish this poop off without coming into physical contact with anything around me. Then I run home.
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I’d never mow another man’s lawn so I’m definitely not going to shit in his living room. I even hate when those attendants are in there. Welcome. Please feel free to piss on my floor, destroy my bowl, use my after shave, and except this warm cloth for which to dry your hands upon. Just be sure to give me money afterward. Fuck off.
I’ve come across stalls that I can actually see over. The last thing I want while shitting is eye contact. My wife gets pissed at me because I still lock the door at home. So I say “What the fuck, wife? If that moment wasn’t meant to be private there would be a toilet in the kitchen. The locks are there for a reason, use them!” Then she comes back in the room and says “What?”, and I’m all “…..nothing.”
It’s not just snakes, by the way. Anything can be crawling up that bowl headed straight for my pooper. You hear stories all the time about bitchy parents flushing unwanted pets. There could be an alligator, piranha, Mega Shark, Giant Octopus, or even some extraordinarily pissed-off rabid puppy. Exit only, bitches.
I’ll never feel safe flushing a toilet in a public restroom. I’m convinced it will either back up and spill all over my feet before I have a chance to run or there will be some sort of giant eruption that sends poo-water raining down from above.
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I’d either be locked in for the rest of my life because the lock jammed or be stuck in mid-pinch in front of the whole world because it won’t latch correctly. What I wouldn’t be doing is jumping into a pit of shit to escape. I don’t care if Jessica Biel is waiting to give me a blow-job, I’ll die in there.
This is obviously the one least likely to happen (hence the HM) but I had to list it because I know deep down that the day I decide to give in to my fears and head for the nearest Porta-Potty will be the same day raving mad dinosaurs bust out of some random scientist’s lab and eat me. Always be prepared for this stuff.