My apologies for the dearth of posts, loyal Krumlifers.
Speaking of which, I need a better name for my fan base.
I mean, the Insane Clown Posse is worshipped by the Juggalos, Lady Gaga is adored by her legion of Little Monsters, hell, even Avicii has his notorious Gaggle of Neon Bandana-Wearing MDMA-Munching Faggots.
But I digress…
My hesitancy to blog can be attributed to one thing:
Many of you have been there in your lives.
It’s time when you are vulnerable, alone, and it seems like the world is waiting for you to make a move.
As, you might have guessed, I, Evan Krumholz had to shit in a Single Occupancy Restaurant Bathroom.
Single Occupancy Restaurant Bathrooms, henceforth known as SORBs, are a poison, a bane to those with the sole wish to defecate undisturbed.
Their placement is a paradox.
The bathroom, traditionally a sacred sanctuary, becomes bastardized into a revolving door of deceit, where dropping a deuce becomes a frantic exercise in speed and stealth. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, this is not the way of the world!
Ever try to take a shit in a busy restaurant or house party? You become Jack Bauer defusing a bomb. It fuckin’ sucks.
At this point you may say “Krum, what’s the big deal? It’s a bathroom, just drop one and ditch, right? I mean there’s gotta be worse things in the world-like AIDs or that Freshwater Amoeba that Swims Up Your Nose and Eats Your Brain, right?”
The sorrow of the SORB is two-fold, a multi-headed hound of hell that cuts to my core. Allow me to outline the two reasons why I detest the one person restroom:
A) The Outsider
You’ve become acutely aware that the problem at hand is imminent. You have make a doody, and there is no time to return to home base. You enter the SORB, drop your jeans and sit down on the cold porcelain.
Approximately 15 seconds go by until your life becomes one of two movie scenes.
-It’s Jurassic Park, and the door knob slowly begins to turn with a CreeEEeAK. Except it’s not a Velociraptor. It’s far worse.
"How much longer are you gonna be?"
- It’s Schindler’s List and you’re the Little Girl in the Red Dress hiding under the bed until the SS proceed to BANG ON THE DOOR UNTIL YOU COME OUT AT ONCE!
They got me
Whether it’s Dinosaurs or Nazis, the Outsider waiting to use the bathroom will make your experience most unpleasant.
B) The Stigma
Once you’re found out, the embarrassment of notifying the outsider is unbearable.
Your lips quiver and your voice begins to tremble as you are forced to inform them that:
“SOMEONE IS IN HERE”
Someone isn’t in there, just washing their hands for fifteen minutes…
“SOMEONE IS IN HERE….AND HE’S PUSHING OUT A BIG, STEAMY LOAD”
Once you finally exit that bathroom, you become emblazoned with the Scarlet Letter of Shit, and everyone waiting now knows what the holdup was.
I blame society.
A girl will not hesitate to tell you “she has to pee” or something was so funny she nearly “peed her pants”
But I’ve never had a date tell me “I’ll be right back, just gotta shit!”
There’s just something about shitting that is so socially awkward it must be done under a veil of secrecy, and the SORB rips that veil off you, throwing you into the hallway and locking the door. Kind of like my roommate use to do with me and my pants in college.
Whether it’s having to defend the lavatory against impending occupants, or doing the perp walk back to your table for all to see, nothing is a cause of more mental and physical anguish than the Single Occupancy Restaurant Bathroom.