Let’s say you’re a bachelorette and you get lured up to some guy’s place. (He will remain unnamed, but let’s call him John for the fun of it). There, you find that he has taken his toilet seat off of his toilet, placed it in the dishwasher and ran it through a cycle to wash it. Do you think you would find this to be a turnoff? Suppose he handed you a piece of apple pie on a plate or, better yet, more tempting, a chocolate brownie with ice cream and a spoon? I mean, what is the protocol for this turn of events?
I just rocket vomited all over a toilet, and now I have to put the entire throne into the dishwasher. Then disintegrate the dishwasher with corrosive acid.
I have a toilet phobia. Besides sitting on the disgusting feces trap and getting the literal shit done in as little time as possible, I don’t want any part of the john. Any of it. Especially John’s john. What did he do to his seat? Does he know he can buy a new one at Walmart for $5?
Do people really put their toilet seats in dishwashers?
I need a priest, some lye and a grill brush to heal my eyeballs. I’m never eating out of a dishwashed dish again. Here on out, it’s direct wine bladder spigot to mouth. I will hand eat chili out of a T-shirt. I’ll drink water out of a tampon (a clean one, fools) and coffee out of my boots.
How do I clean my toilet, you ask? If I must, I’ll wear a Hazmat suit and at least 12 pairs of rubber gloves. If I can’t get Hazmat on the horn, I’ll cover myself in trash bags. What if the toilet ruptures, spewing raw sewage? (You will eat your plastic tax, Boulder, and like it.)
I’ve been lucky enough in my youthful existence to live with people who clean the potent porcelain for me in exchange for chores like picking up pounds of dog shit, scrubbing dog vomit out of couch cushions or sopping up gallons of dog piss out of carpets.
But human excretions in a porcelain repository? No, man. No.
And now you want me to eat off of a plate that you wiped your ass with? Or use a spoon you basically shoved up your starfish and then rinsed off with urine? Get the fuck out of here.
The “protocol” for this turn of events is that “John” needs to be banished to a bar Dumpster until he learns the difference between dried-up refried black beans on wedding china and human feces on a toilet seat. Until then, his leg is now my alley urine destination.
Also, “lured” up to a guy’s place? I’ll assume you mean for an unbroken promise of consensual petting, then to be sent home in a fancy limo with a double-chocolate pot brownie (that he didn’t make), a to-go box of wine, a fistful of cash and a driver who escorts me safely inside, then cleans my toilet.
Now my mouth tastes like toilet. Doctor!