On Those Who Are Toilety Neurotic and Insane


While we are the first to admit to possessing character traits that would regularly be described as obsessive, addictive and quite possibly manic — and is this not part of our charm? — we nevertheless take no small consolation in having never descended into the ranks of the toilety neurotic and insane. We were just today reminded of the existence of this sad condition at our place of work, which — and you will have to take our word for this — is an old and venerated establishment, staffed by pleasant, earnest and cordial souls, all of whom exude a collective scent of healthy youth and idealism that is quite frankly inspiring to behold. [Before we proceed with our account, and to prevent any confusion with regard to the issue at hand, we would like to make it quite clear that we do not allege that any of our professional colleagues — or at least the male ones (and we have no knowledge of the women, for reasons that will soon enough be obvious) — are toilety neurotic and insane, for the incident in question is not a recurring one.]

So then, who is this interloper? We suspect that he was most likely a job candidate who — despite being toilety neurotic and insane — somehow managed to secure an interview and thus was required to meet with a representative from HR, whose offices are adjacent to the facilities. If we were conducting an interview with this guy — and somehow knew what he had done — we would like to ask him a few questions; namely, are the cheeks of your ass so pristine that you must shield them from any contact whatsoever with the outside world, even in the form of polished white porcelain that gleams like a mirror? And if so, why is that? Perhaps you were given repeated swirlies as a lonesome boarding-school student and were irreparably damaged by the experience? Or more logically, have you ever picked up any form of sickness from sitting on such a throne, or even one that was perhaps slightly more worn? (Here we think of a few legendary examples we have personally known in rock clubs all over the country.)

Let’s assume that the answer to at least this second question is no, that you have never contracted anything unpleasant from one of these sessions, because logic — not to mention scientific research — tells us that your chances of getting hit by a car are much much greater. But hey, we are the first to defend an emotional response over a logical one, and if you happen to be toilety neurotic — and whether the cause is traumatic or not — that’s fine by us; as we said before, we have our own issues to contend with, and the last thing we want to do is impose our own standards on anyone else. Still, and that said, we remain disturbed by the manner in which you simply left the stall without any regard for those equally toilety souls who would be next in line.

Whether the decision to flee was conscious or not, we cannot speculate, for both are equally problematic in different ways; if unconscious — that is, if you simply didn’t notice what you were doing — we are somewhat moved by the extremity of your case, and we try to imagine how you can possibly function in a city of millions; we think of you suffering something along the lines of the Catherine-Deneuve meltdown in Roman Polanski’s Repulsion. But if conscious — that is, if you knew exactly what you were doing and did it anyway — it strikes us as a form of inconsiderate denial that must also be classified as insane, although in the popular sense of the word, so that you must confront the question: wtf — are you insane?

Sadly, the answer seems to be yes, because who do you suppose gets to clean up after you? And why do you think anyone deserves this fate? And if this is any indication of how you treat the rest of the world, is it any wonder people look at you with a brand of hatred that only comes from a place of degradation? Nice going, friend, and good luck! You’re definitely going to need it.

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