He was holy water, she, firewater; when he consumed her, he was no longer a man of the cloth but a man without his clothes.
He was the turkey at every Thanksgiving, she, the ham at every Christmas. When they decided to cook up something together, they ended up with a little meatball, full of spice & spunk. The parents still reigned supreme, however, for they could be enjoyed cold as well as hot.
He was nice (but too nice to other men’s wives); she was naughty (but only with her husband). Neither considered themselves above the other, for they were both on very important lists.
Every John who came through “Lorelei’s Happily Ever After, Inc.” would learn that their slogan— “If you’re not happy, it’s not the end”— was all too true, for they went in as John Smith, only to leave as John Doe.
To save their rubber chicken wedding, the bride, Mrs. Kentucky Fried— also known as an angel with wings with the breasts & thighs to match— showed a little leg as she danced back & forth across the yellowing, crumbling brick road, having the guests try to figure out why she was up to such chicken shit. But the bride found herself in a real sour pickle when the egg came before her groom did.
When I see lines of people waiting to get into Best Buy on Black Friday, I always wonder if they’re by themselves, and if so, how do they go to the bathroom? Do they wear adult diapers or do they fast? Do they call for backup?
Bathrooms are awesome.
Growing up, if my family and I were on the road, we always stopped at McDonald’s to do our business (if not do business) because the bathrooms were usually clean. (We would probably need a permission slip at Starbucks now, though maybe a tall latte would buy us a few minutes of peeing privileges.)
Whenever I get to wherever I’m going, I always have to go, which is rather annoying. That’s what happens when you drink a lot of water—just like you try to eat healthy and get e-coli from the lettuce, but no ramifications from the greasy burger.
Which is why I’m happy that the Writing Lab is now in Building 4.
Going to the bathroom in Building 1 (if you’re unlucky enough to be at the Math Lab on Sunday) is like going into one of those gas station bathrooms where you have to use a key attached to a jacked-up hubcap.
That said, there are other campus bathrooms that could use a little attention to detail.
If you’re using the tutoring lab in Building 6, you want to be careful and not shut the door too hard in the handicapped stall of the ladies’ room because the sanitary napkin receptacle will fall off and give you a jolt. You also want to wash your hands very fast, as the water stays on for about two seconds (and that’s not the two-second rule you want to follow).
There are certain things all bathrooms should have, like lots of TP. I haven’t sat on a bare toilet seat in a public place since, well, since I was a little girl and Grandma told me not to. You know those passive-aggressive little signs like “If you sprinkle when you tinkle, be a sweetie and wipe the seatie?” Well, if the seat is dry, there might be dried pee you can’t see.
I need at least six sheets of separation.
I get really pissed (pardon the pun) when you can’t get the toilet paper out, and it just comes off in squares—the amount Sheryl Crow says you should use to save the environment.
And then you have those people who like to leave their calling card; I always skip that stall.
Honestly, a stall should have a shelf (or a hook somewhere) for you to hang your purse and any other belongings, so you don’t have to put them on the floor; they should also have doors that you can push, not pull, to get in.
Building 4 has windowsills in their handicapped stalls (can you tell I love handicapped stalls?) to set your stuff. Hopefully, a real handicapped person won’t be giving you the stinkeye when you get out.
Building 4 also has hand dryers, but no paper towel dispenser in the handicapped stall.
At least you can push the door open with your foot. Pull dirty, push clean. That’s how all main bathroom doors should be.
The library’s bathrooms are some of the best on campus. The gym (when it’s actually open) works in a pinch, though when you walk in, the people there can tell you aren’t working out, and you feel like a fattie.
Sometimes, in Building 14, you come across the Post-Its from the Active Minds group (like “You are awesomesauce!”) stuck to the bathroom mirror like mini pep talks. This makes the bathroom more interesting.
Powerful flushers, hand-drying choices, faucets that aren’t on a timer, and hooks galore are the hallmarks of a great bathroom anywhere.
During those times that you have just fifteen minutes between classes, it’s nice to have a place to park and unload where you don’t feel like you’ve just left Wal-Mart at three in the morning.
That’s the rundown for the women’s bathrooms. As for the men’s, I really couldn’t say. We haven’t become that gender-fluid yet.
Originally published in the November/December 2018 issue of The Corsair, Pensacola State College’s student newspaper; first place winner in the humor category at the FCSPA State Publications.
He was Stan– Stan the Man, he said. She was Jan– Jan with the big cans, she said, which was why she did not need Stan the Man with his ooey, too-dewy wandering hands.
When he asked to take her to bed, she said, “Never to bed, even if we wed.”
“In a car?” he asked.
“Never in a car– no matter how fast or how far.”
“In an elevator?”
“Never in an elevator– no matter how high or how low, you will never be the way I go.”
“In the grass, under a tree, or on the roof, facing the sea?”
“Never in the grass or out of the grass, under a tree or over a tree, on a roof or off a roof– not even off my rocker– whether facing, or defacing, the sea. You are gross, you are gross, don’t you smell, don’t you see?”
“Try me, try me, you might like me, you shall see. Just one kiss, and you will be in bliss.”
She shook her head and said, “This ain’t green eggs and ham. If I take you in, I can’t just spit you out, and swallowing, with my being Catholic, is not allowed.”
And so Stan the Man became Stan the Mailman, delivering only those oh-so discreet packages that women really wanted (batteries not included).
He was a party animal, she, a wallflower he plucked from a garden
crawling with bookworms. When she threw the book at him for disturbing her peace, he ended up reading it,
for the bump that My In-Law is an Outlaw
had left on his frontal lobe
had made him forget himself.
He brought her fresh milk every morning, & she gave him fresh eggs, which put a bun in her oven. When the big cheese came home & saw a skim, curly-headed ginger snap running around, he waited for Mr. Grade A (who’d lived up to his name among the baker’s dozen whose husbands were away) & turned him into a hunk of Swiss.
When the Big Cheese was away, the mice loved to chatter. When the Big Cheese came back, she found that their story about being spread too thin from the daily rind was full of holes.
She was always told that too many chefs spoiled the soup, but Amelia Debilia didn’t listen to her mama. She found 3 TV chefs— the annoying English Basil with the Gumby pompadour, the Asian Ginger, & a sprig of a woman named Rosemary— all who tried to make the world believe that the only way to eat meat was mid-rare. She chopped them up fine & sprinkled them into her cast-iron pot, creating what she deemed fusion cuisine. When her unknowing mama tasted what she had done, she’d shaken her head & said, “You have to remember to take their clothes off first.”
Daly Dubble, in his double-breasted monkey suit, was doing double-duty at the Do Drop Out, when along came a pair of twins with their Double Ds, on a double date with their body doubles, making dubious Daly think he was having double vision. Hitching up his double chin, he approached them on the double, bearing double scotches & telling them (with a double wink) that “A little double do ya.”
Sham & Wow were an odd couple, Sham, the messy one, Wow, the neat one, but together, they were the perfect oddity that was a commodity, for without the Wow, Sham was a fraud, & without the Sham, Wow was just a common, upside-down tattoo.
He was Generation X, she, Generation Y. Though algebra wasn’t her thing, she knew enough to know that this x+y was the solution, not the problem.
Lil’s passion was dumbbells & barbells, Lily’s, poetics & texts of the literary kind, but they were the best of friends— until they shared a love for a thing called Chad, who was as well-muscled as he was eggheaded. When 2 sets of scratches ended up on his back, that’s when the cat nipping turned into a no-nails-barred cat fight.