Warning: If you have a weak stomach, don’t read this. Come back next week instead. I promise not to tell any gross stories then.
Last week, I mentioned a few reasons for my troubled relationship with toilets. I have more.
You may think that having to use an ancient outhouse in childhood would be enough to leave me with an antipathy toward outhouses. Not so. That came later.
When I was a teenager, I volunteered at a children’s summer camp in the Lake of the Woods area around Kenora, Ontario. I’m not exactly sure why I did this, because kids in large numbers tend to make me run screaming. Fortunately, I was the archery director, not a counsellor. My only responsibility was to keep the archery equipment repaired and prevent the kids from shooting each other. Or us.
One day, I was sitting with a few of the counsellors when a six-year-old dashed up to us, screaming the words of doom: “Shawna’s down the biffy hole!”
A volley of sidelong glances between the camp staff, accompanied by mutters of, “Not MY kid.”
The unfortunate soul who was responsible for Shawna rushed to the scene of the disaster. I heard about it later, and that was as close as I cared to come.
Apparently, Shawna had dropped a candy down the hole. She wanted to see if she could see the candy. Don’t ask me why. The logic of kids eludes me. But it was dark down there, so she got her flashlight. Apparently Shawna had grip issues or something, because she dropped the flashlight as well.
Horrified that she’d lost her father’s new flashlight, she delegated one of her six-year-old friends to hold her by the ankles while she retrieved the flashlight. Guess the other kid had grip issues, too.
On the up side, I think Shawna must have had a pretty good life since then. Getting dropped head-first into a pile of shit is probably about the worst thing that’s going to happen in her lifetime. Nice to get that out of the way early.
And speaking of getting things out of the way…
Many moons ago, I lived in residence at Tache Hall at the University of Manitoba. Communal bathrooms were down the hall. About once a week, I’d find an enormous mound cresting out of the water in the toilet bowl. I’m not sure whether the Phantom Shitter didn’t know how to flush, or whether he/she was simply so proud of the pile that they wanted the rest of us to be able to admire it, too.
Or, what do I know? Maybe it was a team effort. There were some sick puppies living there.
I used to have a recurring dream. In my dream, I needed to go to the bathroom. But every bathroom I found had something terribly wrong with it. I couldn’t find the toilets. Or the toilets were overflowing. Or the cubicle walls ended at knee-height. Or I started to use the toilet and discovered that it was leaking all over me. It was an utterly repulsive dream.
When I looked it up on a dream-interpretation site, it said toilets are symbolic of expressing or repressing emotions, or that these types of dreams might have indicated I was afraid of what people thought of me. Or something.
I’m not so sure.
I think it was probably just a flashback.
Anybody else have that dream?