You know how men have a bad rap for their bathroom behavior? They never put the seat down, their shits smell terrible and they treat their dicks like fire hoses when relieving themselves? That may be true, but we are far more filthy.
I do a fair amount of traveling to a variety of places and there is one thing that I have noticed in every city and country I’ve been to. I can’t help but notice it because sometimes it gets on my ass and I think we are all pretty aware of what’s going on with our asses like, 98% of the time (2% reserved for the rare occasion you do Molly and your dude slips it in the wrong hole and you’re like, “The earth is so beautiful. We are so lucky to have nature.”)
What I’m talking about is the pee on the seat. You know the pee I’m talking about. The pee that appears in little droplets all over the toilet seat like a cloud made of urine magically appeared in the airport bathroom and graced the stall with a summer shower.
And you people who sprinkle when you tinkle know who you are. You’re the squatters. You’re the ones that think your precious asses and thighs are worth more than the rest of the female population’s. Guess what, you maniacs? They’re not. You’re not special. In fact, I have kicked a girlfriend the fuck out of my life because I found out she was a squatter. Some rando was all, “You have to squat in the toilets. They’re disgusting.” And she was like, “Oh, I always squat.”
Of course I handled the situation with grace and got through the rest of the day with this woman because that’s how my mama raised me, but I never called her to make plans again because I don’t like selfish people one bit.
Here’s the thing, squatters: If no one squats, there will be nothing on the seat between you and the little paper toilet cover to have to squat over. And if you’re going to say to me, “But Molly, sometimes there are no paper toilet covers,” I will say to you, “Yes there are. They’re called strips of toilet paper and that’s what we did in the 80s, just like how we read newspapers and used rotary phones at our nana’s houses.”
You just line the seat, girls. Line it with toilet paper. But I know there are some of you out there reading this that are like, “Ew, no. That’s still not good enough for me and my Jesus-adjacent behind. I need everything to be sanitary because I don’t understand that a little bit of germs won’t kill me because I’m a fragile new money cunt.”
If you’re thinking like that, there are these things called Lysol wipes. They sell them in handy little packs in the travel section of your local drug store. Who doesn’t love a trip to the travel section of CVS? All those little tiny soaps and baby oils and shampoos and Lysol to-go packs? So fun, right?
I suggest you take your unicorn of a butt down to CVS, get a few packs and toss them in your Hershel backpack or your hideous Prada tote that’s totally a daytime bag that you carry at night because you’re a tacky fuck. When nature calls, put a couple in your hand and give the seat a wipe down before you make water. There you go, you’re no longer on my kill list.
What I’m getting at here is that we have to help each other because we’re in a particular bathroom situation as women. We have tampons to change, we have small bladders, some of us are preggo. A squat isn’t always an option. And if no one pisses on the seat, we can all sit on the seat. Even at Bonnaroo! Even in the hotel lobby! Even at a gas station! At a discothèque! The world is our piss-free oyster!
I apologize for my harsh language, but I’m fed up with the fact that this is not a dialogue that’s happening regularly. I’m furious that we just keep spraying bathrooms with number one like it ain’t no thang. It is a thang, actually. It’s an animal thang. And we’re better than that, you know?
I love you so much, I just want good things for you,