Rest Assured

The guy in the bathroom stall next to me was giving birth to a calf this morning. It smelt like burnt egg-salad deep fried in gorgonzola fondue. And it sounded as if the Iron Sheik had him in the Camel Clutch. The cold from the bathroom tile combined with the hot gas exorcising from his body created a weather pattern that caused the barometric pressure to drop. The chance of precipitation in my stall was 40% with a high in the 70's when he was finally done. If a person is capable of emitting such horrific sounds and oppressive odors then I'm not completely comforted by my "safe-t-gard" toilet seatcover. Chances are 100% that someone took the Browns to the SuperBowl on the same toilet seat I was using.

The tissue seat covers always glare back in judgment at eye-level when entering the stall, "you're not going to use me?" No, I'm not. I don't have a degree in epidemiology but a transparent piece of flimsy tissue paper is not going to prevent ringworm. It certainly is not going to protect me from what I heard in the stall next door. We have every right to be paranoid in the corporate bathroom, they are rife with disgusting cooties; lice, herpes, rashes, ringworm, and ebola to name a few. However, the elaborate olympic ceremony of unveiling and administering the seatcover only prevents us from going to the bathroom sooner.

The not so easy-to-dispense seat covers serve as an emotional security blanket for our germaphobic minds. Our conscience has gotten the better of us. We think we're scuzzy bacteria whores if we don't place the flimsy tissue on top of the toilet seat. When in reality we're just whores, forget about the scuzzy bacteria part. The false prophets of paper products speak witchcraft when it comes to seat covers because they will not protect us from the residue of a previous inhabitant's germs. It's time to stop allowing the paper companies to feed off of our fears.

Take a stand and protest. Or in this case, take a half squat. If you're too scared to slap your bare skin against the white enamel finish then hover over it like Luke Skywalker with his landspeeder in park and fill the pond with some boneless brown trout. Trust me, no one is looking and no one is judging. I'm the only one being judged at this point and I'm O.K. with that. But wash your hands with Howard Hughes-like vigor before you leave that bathroom and keep a paper towel in your hand when you use the door to exit. Those doorknobs are filthy.