A very interesting day here in the people's Republic of Gumbolia. It's not often one gets serenaded by Jimi Hendrix while urinating.
What's that, you say? Some explanation is needed? Of course, allow me.
So last week I chronicled my unfortunate encounter with a kidney stone. I am happy to report that most of the week was relatively pain-free. I say relatively because now my Pain-o-Meter has been recalibrated thanks to the aforementioned kidney stone. I followed the doctor's instructions to drink lots (LOTS) of fluids, and stick to the medicine, and wait for things to...pass. They advised me to monitor my 'output' even if that meant filtering said 'output' through a strainer to better catch anything (this becomes critical, later, you'll see). They can be sent for testing, to better determine how to prevent recurrence.
Well, the only strainer I have in the house is my trusty little tea strainer...and there is no way I was going to whiz through that, even if I sterilized it in boiling water. Just couldn't do it.
I didn't have time to go strainer shopping, so I decide to take my chances and bide my time, trusting that the stone would be evicted by the natural flow of things, and that I would know when it did. It's a jagged little stone, right, traveling through rather constricted spaces, right? Some rather sensitive constricted spaces, I must add.
All the past week, I anxiously awaited results. And every day since last Monday, nothing. Nothing, that is, until Sunday morning.
Things...shifted. I noticed a little disturbance going on in Brother John early, and hoped that this might be the end of it. First trip to the loo...a little scratchy, but no stone. Second trip, mid-morning: did the pee-pee dance, still scratchy. Still, no stone. Third trip, just past noon: They told me that sometimes an 'escapee' can be heard hitting the, um...bowl of whatever miracle of modern sanitation one happens to be, um...using. And so it was. Clink.
Amen and hallelujah, I thought, looking down, and there it was, big as day. Well, it felt bigger than day but was really only about the size of a grain of rice. Sitting there, all ready for retrieval...except there was a catch. I wasn't using a strainer. I wasn't even at home.
I was at a urinal in the public restroom at a local park. An automatic flush urinal, right next to the door.
I slowly zipped up, trying not to move too far. Also, I didn't have any tissues or gloves with me, and I couldn't walk away to get some tissue or a towel for fear of setting off the auto flush and thereby washing away the "fruits of my labor", as it were. So it was me, stock still, contemplating reaching into a public urinal(!) barehanded to pick up(!) a kidney stone. And what if someone walked in just as I lifting the "prize" out of the urinal? How to explain that?
Eventually, intellectual curiosity won out over revulsion...I took a deep breath, prayed that no one would come in, and make a lightning grab for the stone. I was like a peregrine falcon on a pigeon, I was moving so fast. Amazingly, I snagged the stone in one try.
I immediately hot-footed it over to the sink before any one else ventured in. I hurriedly washed the thing off (and with a thorough washing of my hands!) and wrapped it in some tissue paper for safekeeping. Hopefully, some good will come of this rather distasteful brush with the public sewer system.
The soundtrack to this farce? "Stone Free" by Jimi Hendrix was playing in my head the whole time.
"...Stone free do what I please
Stone free to ride the breeze
Stone free I can't stay
Got to got to got to get away..."
Lyrics from "Stone Free" by Jimi Hendrix. This song may end up in a Flomax commercial...
Showing posts with label we'll always have kohler. Show all posts
Showing posts with label we'll always have kohler. Show all posts
01 November 2010
03 January 2009
L' Toilet C'est Moi: Three Thrones for the King
“Who’s that, then?”
“I dunno. Must be a king.”
“Why?”
“ ‘e doesn’t got shit all over ‘im.”
-from ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’
His Majesty looked at himself in the mirror. The royal visage peered back, shirtless, pale, a little out of shape. The royal right hand held the royal toothbrush, which in turn was scrubbing the royal pearly whites. It would not do for the King to have less than shiny, clean choppers. His Majesty continued to brush, his royal gob all fresh and minty.
The King grew thoughtful as he stared at himself in the mirror. A faint gray field of stubble was across the regal cheeks. Time to shave. His Majesty was not prone to that belief that a beard was essential to the royal presence. Too much trouble to maintain, and he had never liked all the crumbs and vermin that took up residence in a beard. “I suppose I could cut back on the number of royal feasts if I decide to grow another beard” he said to the fellow in the mirror. He slapped the slight flab girding his stomach with both hands. “Ha! That would probably do some good for the royal gut, as well. Yes, it shall be so. We shall eat less in the coming year!” No mention was made on the amount of beer to be consumed. The royal conscience told His Majesty that we shall wait and see. A lot to be said for the nutritive value of a fine stout.
His Majesty picked up the King’s razor to shave. The metal was cool against his cheek as the tiny blades munched their way through the salt and pepper stubble. The regal cheeks began to shine under the ministrations of the razor. As he scraped and pushed, a thought occurred to the King.
What, then, is that which made him a King?
Was it divine right? The King grunted, half laugh and half cough. No, it couldn’t be that. The King appreciated that God may had something to do with his ascension, but given the number of times they had butted heads, the King didn’t think so.
Was it the number of subjects? The King sighed. Subjects? What subjects? A Queen who would bristle at the notion of his being King, a Princess who wasn’t yet fully aware that she was really the one in charge, and two cats of neutral gender who cared not a fig who was running the kingdom as long as the food bowl was filled every day? Subjects, my royal left nut.
Perhaps it was His Majesty’s professed vocation. Yes, a career, a daily investment of time and energy in the noble pursuit of making buildings! Not for nothing that Architect was derived from ‘Master Builder’, he who is charge of all details great and small. Mind and hands that shaped the very fabric of the towns and cities of this fair land! Yes, that’s it…..
The King sighed. No, that would not be it. Recent events had shown otherwise. Barbarians spilling over the borders, marauders from far distant lands had rendered His Majesty incapable of pursuing his craft. It didn’t help that the border provinces had been in mild revolt, combining forces with the invaders. Another heavy sigh, and the King admitted to himself that maybe, maybe that was a sign that he need not be, nor could he be, a Master Builder anymore.
Shaving complete, His Majesty placed the razor back in its cradle. The royal cheeks gleamed, pink and soft as the proverbial baby’s bottom; presumably, they smelled better. The King assumed so, it not being easy to sniff one’s own cheeks. He felt a slight twinge in his lower abdomen. Hmm, time to void the Royal Bladder, he thought. He strode over to the gleaming white toilet in the corner of the room, unzipping the regal fly on the way.
“Your Majesty, your are like a stream of bat’s piss.”
“What?!”
“I, um, I, ah, I merely meant, Your Majesty, that, ah, you shine out like a shaft of gold when all around is dark.”
-from ‘Oscar Wilde’ by Monty Python
The King laughed, the Python skit playing in his head as he maintained aim on the bowl. The Royal Cleaning Crew was good, but pee is pee, regardless of pedigree. As he stood there, whistling ‘Londonderry Air’, a new thought dawned on him.
In his house there are three rooms dedicated to personal hygiene and sanitation. In each of those rooms, there is a toilet: a white porcelain toilet complete with a fuzzy little cover on the lid. Three toilets. In the context of his country, this was perhaps not so remarkable. After all, toilets were commonplace. But when the King considered that there are many places in the world that do not have the blessing of indoor plumbing and public sanitation, three toilets seemed unusual. For that matter, there were many places in the world that probably had no special room for a toilet, much less THREE of them. The King wondered, amazed at all this luxury.
Three toilets, all there for him to park the royal bum on whilst contemplating the news of the day. It wasn’t exactly money in the royal coffers, but the King could not help but feel that in some ways, he was a very rich man indeed. Some might even consider him to be divinely graced because of those toilets.
The King knows however, that he is really just a lucky man, to have an empire the size of a three toilet house.
“I dunno. Must be a king.”
“Why?”
“ ‘e doesn’t got shit all over ‘im.”
-from ‘Monty Python and the Holy Grail’
His Majesty looked at himself in the mirror. The royal visage peered back, shirtless, pale, a little out of shape. The royal right hand held the royal toothbrush, which in turn was scrubbing the royal pearly whites. It would not do for the King to have less than shiny, clean choppers. His Majesty continued to brush, his royal gob all fresh and minty.
The King grew thoughtful as he stared at himself in the mirror. A faint gray field of stubble was across the regal cheeks. Time to shave. His Majesty was not prone to that belief that a beard was essential to the royal presence. Too much trouble to maintain, and he had never liked all the crumbs and vermin that took up residence in a beard. “I suppose I could cut back on the number of royal feasts if I decide to grow another beard” he said to the fellow in the mirror. He slapped the slight flab girding his stomach with both hands. “Ha! That would probably do some good for the royal gut, as well. Yes, it shall be so. We shall eat less in the coming year!” No mention was made on the amount of beer to be consumed. The royal conscience told His Majesty that we shall wait and see. A lot to be said for the nutritive value of a fine stout.
His Majesty picked up the King’s razor to shave. The metal was cool against his cheek as the tiny blades munched their way through the salt and pepper stubble. The regal cheeks began to shine under the ministrations of the razor. As he scraped and pushed, a thought occurred to the King.
What, then, is that which made him a King?
Was it divine right? The King grunted, half laugh and half cough. No, it couldn’t be that. The King appreciated that God may had something to do with his ascension, but given the number of times they had butted heads, the King didn’t think so.
Was it the number of subjects? The King sighed. Subjects? What subjects? A Queen who would bristle at the notion of his being King, a Princess who wasn’t yet fully aware that she was really the one in charge, and two cats of neutral gender who cared not a fig who was running the kingdom as long as the food bowl was filled every day? Subjects, my royal left nut.
Perhaps it was His Majesty’s professed vocation. Yes, a career, a daily investment of time and energy in the noble pursuit of making buildings! Not for nothing that Architect was derived from ‘Master Builder’, he who is charge of all details great and small. Mind and hands that shaped the very fabric of the towns and cities of this fair land! Yes, that’s it…..
The King sighed. No, that would not be it. Recent events had shown otherwise. Barbarians spilling over the borders, marauders from far distant lands had rendered His Majesty incapable of pursuing his craft. It didn’t help that the border provinces had been in mild revolt, combining forces with the invaders. Another heavy sigh, and the King admitted to himself that maybe, maybe that was a sign that he need not be, nor could he be, a Master Builder anymore.
Shaving complete, His Majesty placed the razor back in its cradle. The royal cheeks gleamed, pink and soft as the proverbial baby’s bottom; presumably, they smelled better. The King assumed so, it not being easy to sniff one’s own cheeks. He felt a slight twinge in his lower abdomen. Hmm, time to void the Royal Bladder, he thought. He strode over to the gleaming white toilet in the corner of the room, unzipping the regal fly on the way.
“Your Majesty, your are like a stream of bat’s piss.”
“What?!”
“I, um, I, ah, I merely meant, Your Majesty, that, ah, you shine out like a shaft of gold when all around is dark.”
-from ‘Oscar Wilde’ by Monty Python
The King laughed, the Python skit playing in his head as he maintained aim on the bowl. The Royal Cleaning Crew was good, but pee is pee, regardless of pedigree. As he stood there, whistling ‘Londonderry Air’, a new thought dawned on him.
In his house there are three rooms dedicated to personal hygiene and sanitation. In each of those rooms, there is a toilet: a white porcelain toilet complete with a fuzzy little cover on the lid. Three toilets. In the context of his country, this was perhaps not so remarkable. After all, toilets were commonplace. But when the King considered that there are many places in the world that do not have the blessing of indoor plumbing and public sanitation, three toilets seemed unusual. For that matter, there were many places in the world that probably had no special room for a toilet, much less THREE of them. The King wondered, amazed at all this luxury.
Three toilets, all there for him to park the royal bum on whilst contemplating the news of the day. It wasn’t exactly money in the royal coffers, but the King could not help but feel that in some ways, he was a very rich man indeed. Some might even consider him to be divinely graced because of those toilets.
The King knows however, that he is really just a lucky man, to have an empire the size of a three toilet house.
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