You are the problem. I know the cause of your toilet-centric neuroses stems from the concept of hundreds of bums resting upon the molded plastic of one singular seat. Yes, countless transient hinds have been to this place before, where you currently stand, debating whether to hover half a foot above the air like an anxious drone or to, like the other poor suckers, use the hygienic paper lining provided to you by the establishment. “Does that hygienic paper lining really protect you from germs?” you ask yourself. “Does a flimsy, biodegradable sheet of paper really separate your skin from the skin that came before it?” A hundred thoughts fly through your head – grave concerns of filth and diseases, Staph infections and Hepatitis A. To this: You make the decision. You won’t risk it. Instead, you decide to pee all over the seat, creating the mess that you so dutifully feared, left now for someone else to deal with.
I do not understand the mentality here.
It is akin to people who think that voting doesn’t matter, that sort of “What’s one vote in one million?” throwaway of personal choice and significance. There is, however, significance in numbers, and the collective clout of such people adds up to a substantial movement. Such is the case with squatters. If they, together, decided that there would be a moratorium on hovering, nary a toilet seat would be covered in urine, and then, as if by magic, the very concern that made them hover to begin with will have evaporated. Because — as I stated before – Lady Squatter, you are the problem.
Selfishly, I implore you, Lady Squatter, in the words of Mr. Vanilla Ice, to stop, collaborate, and listen. Please just sit down. Place that sheet of paper (shiny side down, where there lives a layer of wax and germicide) on the nightmarish surface, and leisurely proceed, keeping yourself at a more graceful distance from the water below, where everything can fall tidily in its bowl, not sprayed akimbo like some halfhearted Jackson Pollock painting. You will find that this benefits everyone, not least of whom are the people you are subsequently forcing to clean up your mess after you leave. Because I know you’re not walking away from these hovering situations scot-free. Yes, Lady Squatter, having been forced on a few occasions to maneuver similarly in truly unforgivable roadside situations, I am privy to your, err, privy.
Let us, Sitters of the World, band together, sparing one another from the sprinkles of strangers. Let us, dear sisters, vow to sit down to pee, making our little public bathroom worlds a drier, cleaner, friendlier place.