Every good saxophonist knows how important it is to use the diaphragm. The amazing sounds that Kenny G or Joe Henderson are able to produce are all supported by a muscle much lower than the mouth and lungs. My band directors all instructed me to breathe low and deep in the gut, then push the sound out gradually in a controlled manner. As my skill on the saxophone increased, so did my ability to control my diaphragm to help me produce the sounds and tone that I wanted.
After a long day at school, I had several items that I had to take care of on my agenda. I had to practice my saxophone and I had to poop. I decided to practice first and poop second, naturally leaving the best for last. However, as I began to practice using my diaphragm the movement in my bowels made the urge to poop greater. I fought the urge for a bit, but soon it was too strong. As I began to remove my saxophone from my neck strap to go use the bathroom, my jr. high mind began connecting some dots. Muscles that I used to play the saxophone and muscles that I used to push the poop out were in the same general area. Could the practice of one be used to assist the other?
I immediately sprang into action to try my experiment. Thinking back, it is a strange thing indeed to picture myself walking into a bathroom carrying a stand, some music, and a saxophone. Getting situated took some extra effort. I had to juggle the pant removal and saxophone and stand adjusting, but I soon settled in. I proceeded to attempt practicing both instruments. I’m sure that I sounded like a crazy person as sounds of a saxophone, a person pooping, and laughter at the ridiculousness of the situation floated through the bathroom door. Unfortunately, however, the musical partnership of saxophone and poop was not meant to be. It was much too hard to coordinate the two similar, but opposing bodily functions. Eventually, I gave up and finished my bathroom business with my saxophone dejectedly placed on the floor. The experiment had failed, but I was still proud of my attempt. I knew that in the musical world I could hold my head up high because I knew that I had taken my instrument to a level few saxophonists have dared to go.
Recently, I discovered that a hero of mine had died. While we had only met briefly a few times, this hero had a huge impact on me. Not only is the Log Blog a result of this inspiration, but my pursuit of better toilets and a better experience is thanks to just a few of these meetings. I remember one lesson in particular. This was the time I learned about the ideal partier’s restroom. After a long night of partying or sickness, one may need access to both the toilet and the sink at the same time. It just so happened that this particular, quaint bathroom was so tiny that, while sitting on the toilet, one’s face was practically forced into the sink whether one was sick or not. The implications of this statement didn’t immediately sink in, but over time I have realized several things from the experience. First, I now know that there are many hidden features, both positive and negative, which we many not recognize. We have to dig deeper and explore each place thoroughly from a variety of angles before we can truly discount a restroom. The next lesson I learned was that discussion is infinitely beneficial. If I had not been told of this alternate use, I never would have been inspired to explore the ins-and-outs of toilets to such a depth. The final lesson I learned from this acquaintance is that we have to take advantage of opportunities while we have them. I never became personal friends, but only had brief contact. As you may have guessed, this incredible impact, this inspiration, this influence on my life is a toilet. Now it no longer works. The water has been shut off, and I never had the pleasure of using it. If I could go back I would fight to keep this bathroom working. But since I can’t, let it be a lesson to us all. The bathroom is a place to experience. Let us not waste our time there, but take advantage of every opportunity to better ourselves and delve into the discarded aspects of life.
Pooping is inspiring. It is one of the few actions that drive men to better themselves, achieve the impossible, and create solutions for the world’s problems. When one considers all the positive elements of pooping, (with no negatives, mind you) it makes me wonder why restrooms are so bland and thrown together. Since the fall of man, life on earth has been a continual struggle to deny the sinful desires of the depraved mind and train ourselves to make decisions that improve society. Some cultures have done a better job of this than others. One of the most difficult impulses man needs to fight is the impulse to neglect the construction of peaceful and enjoyable crappers. If men have good restrooms, they will spend more time pooping. When men (and women) spend more time pooping, all of society benefits.
I will try to summarize what constitutes a good restroom in my opinion:
1. Natural light. Pooping is organic, and I believe the lighting should also be organic. Dark, musty bathrooms are a crime against humanity and should be done away with. Recently my grandma tiled over the window in her bathroom to put in a shower. I nearly cried. The only thing that rivals a poop taken under the light of the sun is a shower taken under the light of the sun. What a shame.
2. Cleanliness. Yes I know this goes against most male’s tendencies, but it’s true. Clean bathrooms are simply more peaceful.
3. Discover what sound is most stimulating to your mind. Everyone is different, but heightening the enjoyment of a poop can be done by discovering what audio companion you need. For some it’s silence, others white noise, like a fan, and many it’s music. In that case, it is your duty as a human to discover what music is most stimulating to your mind.
4. Toilet. Don’t ever think the toilet doesn’t matter when pooping. Ever. The body is made to poop most effectively while squatting (without any aid) So I like to meet it in the middle. I like to have to squat down pretty low to hit the porcelain rim. And it can’t be too small of a circumference. If I feel any risk of my fluids not reaching their targeted destination, there’s not enough room. I even like a small gap in the front in case I need to hock a loogie and spit.
And that folks is my primary four elements to a successful poop. I’m sure I will expand on this later but until then, take it sleazy.
-Harold “Stinky” Dickinson
This is a true and horrifying poop story told by a very unlucky investment banker who has asked to remain anonymous. He sent the story to the twitter page “Goldman Sachs Elevator” and we have edited the profanity and re-posted it here:
Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it’s percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn’t more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to poop my pants. “Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five” I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can’t afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.
“Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don’t see a door?” I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my butt. She looks at me, bemused, and says, “Well, we don’t really have one per se.” She continues, “Technically, we have one, but it’s really just for emergencies. Don’t worry, we’re landing shortly anyway.”
“I’m pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency,” I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, “There. The toilet is there.” For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, “If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it’s under there. There’s a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that’s it.” At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mine shaft was set to blow.
I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The “toilet” seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our client. Our female client!
Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” That’s all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what I’m doing.
Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I’m joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving quickly to where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like a hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.
I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet’s virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava.
I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It’s an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I’m going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that’s not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” briefly comes to mind.
I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren’t sharing a stall with some guy crapping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry” is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered.