Mind Your Pees and Cues

Unacceptable.

Anyone who knows me is aware of two things:

1) My commute is a hellacious, 55 mile sabbatical over at least three major highways, two states and a nation's capitol.
2) My bladder is the size of a chestnut and almost twice as useless.

Where do these seemingly unrelated (and somewhat unappetizing) pieces of information coincide? At the end of a workday, right after I've vaulted into my car, peeled out of the lot and realized that I need to pee like a racehorse.

Such a series of events occurred this evening, big shock: I'm jetting down rt. 50 when my bladder issues the red alert. Fortunately there's a Target sign looming in the distance, so I head thataway. I gleefully manage to make it into the restroom without having to bust a pee dance in public. Things are FINALLY going my way.

Until I realize that I have a very speshul stall neighbor.

The fact that the next stall is even occupied kinda throws me since I go to great lengths to keep a "buffer stall" between myself and anyone else that might be present. This woman obviously entered after I did, but since I'm almost out of here it's no biggie, right? Wait, wait......hold it......what the......?!?

Sploosh.

Sploosh?!?

Aww, HELL to the naw!!!

This woman has invaded the sanctity of my empty loo, totally disregarded the buffer stall mandate and now she's got the cajones to just let her franks fly?!

And not one, single courtesy flush. Not one.

Okay, this is obviously my cue to bust the hell outta here. I immediately turn my attention towards the toilet paper dispenser and start yanking. Oh jeebus, WHY is this thing not turning?!?

Maybe because it's the HUGEST roll of tp ever dispensed. I swear this contraption weighs 22 lbs. and it is not budging. I'm yanking, i'm cajoling, I'm breaking a freaked-out sweat. Yet all I'm getting for my trouble is Charmin shrapnel.

Meanwhile? Sploosh...sploosh, sploosh...sploosh......

GAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Now I'm literally clawing at the roll, mentally begging it to turn. After an eon of contorted, arm-numbing effort, I finally get this effin barrel of paper to rotate. Then I bolt from the stall, hoping to avoid a sighting of Lady Sploosh-o-Matic.

(Note: forcing innocent restroom occupants to face you after you done funked up the place is a cardinal, bathroom-bombing sin.)

So I'm rinsing my hands when Lady Sploosh emerges, large and in charge. After a particularly productive restroom session, this broad needs to be irradiated, but she'll be having none of that. Instead, she waves her hands under the faucet for all of 3 seconds and towels off. No soap. No lather. No germ eradication of any kind.

Stench-laying, disease-smearing, soap-skipping SCALLYWAG!!!