DISCLAIMER: Stories and images published in this week’s issue under satire (with the exception of advertisements) are purely satirical and created for entertainment and/or parody purposes. They are not intended to communicate any accurate or factual information.
Dear York University,
I regret to inform you that all of the toilets on the second floor of Scott Library are fully operational.
I understand this may come as a shock, given that just a few weeks ago there were five perfectly unusable stalls. But I assure you, I would not lie. Due to some utterly incomprehensible circumstances, students can now freely relieve themselves. There are people going twice, even thrice, so much are they spoiled for choice. I have seen, with my own eyes, students flushing and flushing until the room rings like rapids, entrancing all within the vicinity with their siren song. Inspired hordes leave their work behind just to rush the bathrooms. Gleaming porcelain thrones now stand ready to welcome them all. “When in Rome” is their battle cry as they flush to their hearts’ content, joining their brethren in a kind of wild mania.
I fear that, in response to this demand, the university will provide an endless supply of fresh, functional toilets. And I, unable to use any of them!
I know what you’re thinking: why not use one of the other bathrooms, labyrinth’d away somewhere else in the building? They are, after all, less frequently used and should, naturally, be in an abysmal state. You are a fool for thinking this. How did you get into management? Our great university holds a deep reverence for historical artifacts. These untouched toilets must remain that way, reminding us of the folly of man.
It isn’t even the state of the toilet, anyway. The truth is, I’ve Pavlov’ed myself into only being able to go if I’m disappointing someone with the speed of my visit. Now that there is no line-up, no wait, no passive-aggressive eye contact, there is no reason for me to be there at all.
Believe me, I would not reach out unless I considered this a matter of the utmost importance. I have tried to recreate the shame of using a public toilet at home, but there is no one left to disappoint—no one who expects better of me, no one I can agitate any further. My misery is immeasurable. Desperately, I have taken to the streets, marching up and down in search of places popular enough to have a line. Here’s the sick part: all the nice places have multiple bathrooms, and all the crappy ones—excuse the pun—are bars, where people come and go too quickly for any meaningful wait, or are otherwise occupied, in which case I am the one left waiting.
For a time, I believed movie theatres might offer some relief. Paying, at most, $15 to use the toilet is a steal compared to thousands in tuition. I was counting on that one part of the falling action everyone decides is just boring enough to skip. Unfortunately, theatres have conspired against me with large, well-maintained bathrooms, eliminating any hope of delay. I fall to my knees, wailing “FOILED AGAIN!” each time I am confronted with empty stalls, their echo only magnifying my solitude. I have become a regular occurrence at the local precinct for “disturbing the peace.” But what about my peace, York University? What about my pees?
The world used to be different. People used to care. Someone would always be there to ask, “Are you in line?” or “Are you done yet?” or “What’s taking so long?” You were never alone. There was a sense of community—a group of supportive onlookers—as you used the sink, the dryer. That sense of shared experience has vanished. People now go in, do their sordid business, and leave, completely detached, completely self-absorbed, completely confident that they will get to empty their bladder. What’s all the urgency? And where is the urgency that used to be there?
I don’t think I’m asking for too much. The toilet does not even have to be broken, per se. If the university were simply to arrange for some yellow tape to surround a few stalls—as it did just last week—everyone would flock to the remaining ones like the mindless sheep they are. People would wear multiple layers of pants just to pull them all off in there. They would choose to be on their period every single day. They would smile at broken soap dispensers in grateful appreciation—at last, a way to be late to class and spread the flu at the same time. And I would join them, basking in the collective ecstasy of knowing that everyone there is having a very, very bad time.
But for now, all I can do is remember the good old days.
Scatalogically Yours,
A wee pooh-pooher
