OK, not quite a pile. I took a little artistic license to attract views. Still, there were 12 of the little suckers and I can’t figure out why. This was at work by the way. I was doing the standard cursory inspection of the bowl when I saw them. On the porcelain, between the points of the horseshoe seat, right in the sweet spot. 12. Now, in my 42 years of toilet-using I have seen the occasion short and curly. It happens. But 12? What was going on there?? Does he have a medical condition? Was he <gulp> plucking them while idly passing the time?
If you look closely, you’ll notice that they’re not all from the same man.
I take it you didn’t leave your contribution. Did you miss the memo?
I thought about accumulation, but our bathrooms are cleaned multiple times during the day. There just wasn’t time…
Chemo patient?
Uhh, can I have those back?
A leaving for the pube fairy?
Along time ago, I was having a converastion with a (female) friend. She claimed that a (again female) housemate had prehensile pubes as they always ended up in the most unlikely places.
It’s the combination of having an Art Garfunkel downstairs, while wearing tighty-whities. When exposed, they spring forth like a snake-in-a-peanut-can dislodging many from their roots.
According to the tea leaves, twelve pubes indicates an auspicious day, while thirteen portends disaster.
Better get back in there and re-count.
Pube.
Pube.
Were there roots? If not, maybe he (she?) was shaving. Or trimming.
Snerk.
I was thinking that, but didn’t want to look closely enough for the roots…
Kind of sounds like there was a quickie going on. Or maybe self-love. 
So you stopped and counted them?
This is what happened. This is what always happens.
Yes, yes I did. It caught my eye as an unusual sight and I investigated.
You sure it was a toilet and not a coke can?
Someone may have been sending you a message…a message of LOVE!
That is the hallmark of a tru Doper: intellectual curiosity triumphs over visceral disgust.
There were 12 pubes left on the pisspot at the Last Supper, too. Didn’t acquire the same cachet as the Holy Grail.
Bwahaha!
Actually, we quit giving out scissors at the desk because a male patron was caught trimming his pubes in the public restroom with them.
When pubes leave the safety and comfort of the home nest, they become public hairs.
Publes. Pronounced “poo-blays” only by fans of middle of the road crooner music.
Let’s keep the terminology straight, people. Terminological exactitude matters.