I feel like death. My head feels like it might explode. My throat is swollen shut. My nose is plugged up so I can’t breathe, which seems like a sure sign of death to me. The sad thing is that all of this might be to my advantage considering earlier this evening.
Despite me being a walking zombie, I chose to go out for dinner. Which I’m sure all my fellow restaurant-goers appreciated. A lot. Either way, I wanted some delicious food. Which worked out well because it ended up being reindeer with pepper sauce. I love reindeer. And pepper.
Anyway, in my advanced state of decay I decided to run to the bathroom in hopes of hoarding a large amount of toilet paper or tissues. There were no tissues. No worries, my nose knows no (see what I did there?) pain. Rough toiler paper it was. So into the stall I went to blow my nose and collect toilet paper.
After years of having disgusting dogs that enjoy eating snotty tissues out of the trash, I have a habit of throwing anything snotty into the toilet. So I lifted the lid with my foot because I’m kind of strange like that and don’t really want to touch foreign toilet seats. And it was because of toilets like this one.
Let me preface all of this by saying that I enjoy scatological humor. It makes me chuckle. I’m 25. I know. But it’s still funny. Even I have limits though.
The first thing that I noticed were the skid marks. Everywhere. I mean even the upper reaches of the bowl had taken a beating. And then, the smell. Remember, I can’t breathe. I am dying. But that smell penetrated the dam of snot in my nostrils. I took a step back. Literally.
But it got worse. After recovering and being determined to throw my snotty toilet paper into the bowl my eyes were assaulted by more poop. All over the seat. Not on the inside of the bowl. Not on the inside of the seat from splatter. On the damn seat. On it. Right there in the back. It looked like someone had taken a can of snus and rubbed it all over the back of the toilet seat. That’s explosive.
That was it. I quickly kicked the seat down with my shoes. Which I have since burned. That’s not true. They’re nice shoes. I apologize for lying. But I did kick the seat down. Kicked the flusher. Washed my hands. And in a panic tried to leave the bathroom. I could have sworn that when I walked into the bathroom the door was a push door. So I pulled trying to leave. Nothing. I was stuck. So I pulled again. I looked for a lock. I looked for a button to push. Nothing.
Then, in a stroke of genius that can only come to dying man, I pushed. And was let out into the sweet air of freedom. Freedom from the oppression of dirty bathrooms. Freedom from the assault of the smell of poop. FREEDOM!
Welcome to Sweden. Kind of.
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