I pit the men’s room here where I work. It is a vile, horrific place.
No ventilation.
the air must have an unsafe level of hydrogen sulfide and other life threatening gases. not so much as an exhaust fan or those little gizmos that spray citrus concentrate into the air. we need oxygen!
More traffic than the men’s room at Penn Station.
for a company of 1200, I don’t understand why the majority use this one bathroom when there are at least 4 others. I see people in there all the time whom I recognize as workers from the other division (where they have their own closer bathroom.) Use your own toilet goddammit!
The diet of the forementioned traffic must consist of road kill.
honestly, within 15 minutes of the building opening, if you walk into this bathroom you’d swear that someone left a rotting carcass in there. My god, what do these people eat?
Maintenance people always in there yet nothing changes.
self explanatory
I’m sure there are other similar chambers of horror out there. Please don’t tell me that I suffer alone…
Last year waterless urinals were installed in the men’s room here. They were supposed to work, but don’t. Being female, I don’t have to suffer this experience firsthand, but by all reports the men’s room smells like dead skunk rotting on a highway in 110-degree heat.
I served for two years on a guided missile cruider, where I lived in Operations Department berthing. All of the junior enlisted men in the department were there: deck seamen, bo’suns, radiomen, intel guys, and OS’s like me.
The berthing held 96, and we shared 1 head with 4 shitters and 2 urinals. All of them were flushed with seawater that millions of fish had crapped in before us.
Buffalo State College. Porter Hall. Fifth floor. Men’s bathroom.
Three shitters. No stalls, no dividers, no nothing; just three shitters on one end of the bathroom. In a battleship head, maybe, but in a dorm … it wasn’t right, especially considering that the four showers were separated by tile walls and thick plastic curtains.
That wasn’t so bad, though, compared to something I experienced a few years later. Nothing prepared me for … the men’s bathroom at the Juarez City Market. What amazed me wasn’t that the place caked in fifty years of grime and filth, or that it smelled like the Crohn’s Disease convention was in town, but that it actually had an attendant. A short, stocky female attendant.
What is it about bathrooms in developing nations? Does poverty cause one to lose the ability to aim properly?
One day it was the clumps of pubic hair on the floor and the rim of the only “non-handicapped” bowl we have. That is, the only bowl from which I can place my feet flat on the ground.
Endlessly, it’s been 1/8 inch deep URINE beneath the urinals, behind the urinals, and on the dividers between the urinals. Seriously, it pools, and comes up the soles of your shoes a little bit.
Some days, I go in in the morning and on the bowl, there’s dried urine COVERING the top of the seat, all over the toilet hardware, and on the wall and floor in the stall.
I truly believe that someone here has some kind of vindictive feeling and it manifests itself in soiling the mens room.
I can’t really pit the stink because I’m as responsible for that as anyone.
There’s a salmon processing plant in Kenai, Alaska that has bathrooms that flush not with water, but with mineral oil. It seems the plant was too close to a protected wetland to install a septic tank and leach line, so a sewage system was designed to use about 400 gallons of mineral oil to carry the sewage to a holding tank, where the mineral oil is then recovered and used over and over again. It wasn’t too bad in the spring when the oil was new, but by the end of summer, with scores of employees crapping and peeing up to 15 hours a day, it started to look like the toilets were flushing with apple sauce. The aroma was indescribable, and if you pinched a loaf just right, it would plop into the thick, carmel colored goo with just enough force to splash a cold, oily blob onto your ass, where it adhered like a jellyfish to a smooth rock. Even worse was the all-too-frequent times that the can overflowed, and that oily abomination spread across the floor creating a horrid slick that defied cleaning without leaving a thin film of ghastly greasiness on the floor.
Sweet fuck, Fear Itself, I worked in Kenai/Soldotna for a couple of summers… that’s what we were smelling?
Umiat had it much better. Because of the permafrost we had propane fired crappers. You’d drop a doggie into a dry bin and then hit a big red button and “KKkkkkrrrrraaaa” as these orange flames would shoot out and scorch your poodle. Two added bennies were a) no stink, and b) nice toasty seats first thing in the morning. Ah, the simple pleasures.
Okay, I had to spend a few moments trying to think, not too graphically, what portion of one’s anatomy the “poodle” might be and how unpleasant it might be to have it scorched, even on the frostiest morning. I’m figuring now that it actually referred to the product, though, right? Please?
