Though you might find it a rather surprising fact about a SHAMELESS OLD TART like myself, there are, in fact, only two places on the planet where I can comfortably poop away from home:
1) At my writing partner, Doug’s, house — but ONLY in the upstairs, climb-to-the-rafters, upper-most-reaches, shithouse-of-the-hinterlands that belongs to his 5 year old son, Enzo (aka, THE JACKAL.) According to his honest father, the inhuman atrocities that occur in this bathroom on a regular basis could NEVER be equaled by my diminutive, vegetarian self. This notion gives me the confidence to carry on. And, I DO.
And though I realize this is going to sound like pure horseshit, it is, I assure you, NOT.
2) The restroom just to the right of the entrance to Tomorrowland at The Magic Fucking Kingdom. It has all the hallmarks of a perfect place to LET LOOSE LUNCH: LOUD music (“Whistle While You Work” is a PERFECT sound-proofing anthem to makin’ a cawcuh), as well as A QUICK, HIGH TURNOVER RATE, i.e., people and their sniveling, sticky children are in and out SO FAST that by the time you are done leisurely checking Facebook on your phone, playing a round of Words With Friends, digging out the zip-lock bag of baby wipes from the bottom of your purse, and — OH, YEAH — TAKING A FUCKING DUMP…there is not a soul left in the place who actually watched you enter, made careful note of your shoes, and can therefore JUDGE. It really is perfect. A safe-house of sorts for those who prefer doin’ their DOODY DUTY locked in the sweet metal solitude of an Iron Maiden on a Desert Island. Like me.
Poop in a bathroom in the place where you work?
muffy bolding 