M. M. Cabicar
IT’S FULL OF WEE-WEES!
If you have a small daughter, you probably face a similar dilemma when she says:
"Daddy, I need to poop."
Men’s or ladies’? Naturally I take her to the men’s toilet, disregarding her protests:
"But this is a boys’ woom! And I’m a gal."
"Bad luck for you, I’m not going to the ladies. Why don’t you like it here?"
At that moment, Vicky uttered her memorable sentence:
"Cause it’s full of wee-wees."
There was no arguing with that. She was right. To a considerable extent. One man standing at the urinal had to stop what he was doing due to laughing.
"And boys are pigs. Joey in my class says he once managed to pee up to the ceiling lights."
"Well, what a feat," I appreciated the boy’s performance, pressing her into a cabin.
"And ouw teacher was just asking him what he thought he was doing when he peed at her too."
More men at the urinals had to stop, but Vicky did not mind their laughter at all.
"And ouw teacher stahted scweaming, so a cleaning lady wan in."
There was a sudden silence in the room, full of tense anticipation. Vicky undid her trousers and I put her up on the toilet seat.
"And he peed at her, too."
The men’s room turned into a comedy show.
"Better press hard," I told her in a defeated tone.
"I can’t. Can you help me?"
I knew everyone was listening, but what else could I do? Otherwise we would have been bogged down there for ages.
"Heeeh..." I feigned grunting.
And Vicky followed up with her: "Heeeh..."
And the next-door cabin chimed in with another: "Heeeh..."
A couple of voices from the urinals joined in: "Heeeh...."
We all turned into a Prague Pressing Choir.
Enchanted with her success, Vicky made a few more tries. The main thing was it all worked nicely, and poooos began dropping down, which she commented on like this: "Gee, my belly has spilled out completely." And then she crowned it with the words:
"I’ll make a family of nice chocolate anacondas, shall I?" she rejoiced. I only managed to nod resignedly.
"I thought I’d just lay a faht, but now I see a whole family has been bohn," she said, kicking at the toilet bowl.
"I guess I won’t finish today..." a voice at one urinal said when laughter died down.
Finished. While I was looking for a pack of wet wipes, Vicky waited for a moment, then decided it was taking me too long and said:
"You’ve got no sodding TPs, have you? And I’ll have to stand here for houws and wait until I dwy." Then I found toilet paper, wiped her and dressed her. Vicky wanted to flush the toilet herself. I let her flush it, which she did with the words:
"Bye bye, my little poos! Have a nice time, swim well and no mischief down there."
By now I could easily start collecting admission at the urinals. I tried to take my daughter out of the room. While pulling up her sleeves to wash her hands, she came up with her most damning question of the day:
"Daddy, what about the little poos who have no mummy or daddy?"
I chose to swallow my explanation that in such a case they would most probably be shitty orphans, and I quickly washed her hands. Finally, there was more room at the urinals, and I heard one of the customers tell his buddy:
"It’s a great fun here, we’ve got to come more often."
The windstorm that ripped through Prague last night was incredible; I have never seen anything like that. In fact, it wasn’t so much a storm, but rather a gale before the windstorm proper had started. Meteorologists registered wind velocity of 25 m/s, which is 90 km/h. Both my dog Dennis and myself had problems keeping our feet on the pavement. It was my wife Kate who sent us packing, allegedly "before the storm starts in earnest." The actual windstorm was the proverbial fart of a hurricane, compared with what had happened in the streets before it came. Every light object that lay in the streets was flying around. I couldn’t open my eyes because of a cloud of dust; twigs and all the rubbish on the pavements zoomed around. The Earth seemed to have completely lost its gravitational attraction. It wasn’t a mere windstorm but a fusillade of powerful gusts of wind blowing in all directions and tossing us to and fro. Dennis put on his routine behavior when going to the vet: turned into a super heavy anchor, his four paws jammed and dug in the ground. Still, considering his age, my old dog coped with the storm quite well, only his disfigured body now looked much more streamlined. You surely know those pictures showing a dog with its muzzle sticking out of a driving car. Now imagine a dog sticking out its entire body from a passing vehicle... Judging by a fissure in his skin near the mouth, Dennis’s fur seemed to have rolled back towards his rump. But we eventually managed to stagger round the corner to a spot that looked safer and cozier. Dennis immediately got down to doing his job, determined to accomplish his mission in
a record time, and get back home as soon as we possibly could. The
dog’s eyes nearly jumped out of his head, he was pressing so hard,
and at one moment he resembled a big, hairy fly. The job was
finally finished, its outcome deserving an entry in the Guinness
Book of Records. I knew it wouldn’t be easy to clean up in such
windy weather, but I would never, in my darkest dreams, envisage
what happened next. I nearly picked up the dog’s shit into a paper
bag when a gust of wind knocked me for a loop and the bag with its
content, sticking just at the top of the bag, soared up, as if carried
off by aliens. I have to add that in this particular case they hadn’t
chosen the most valuable sample on Earth. The aliens probably
realized their mistake soon enough and chucked the specimen at a
window and let the paper bag fly away. Needless to add, the muck
stuck on the window. I stood transfixed watching the scene. My
200-year-old dog succeeded in shitting on a second floor window.
That deserved a second entry in the Book of Records! But a much
better idea than thinking of breaking a record was to slip off behind
the corner, since somebody was coming to the soiled window. It
opened and in spite of the howling wind the voice of an old man,
saying, "Mary, dear! Come and see, someone shitted on our
windowsill!", came over loud and clear. Then, a less distinct female
voice was heard from inside the room: "James, watch your
language, please. It’s the terrible wind that probably blew
something in. We live on the second floor, so it’s pigeon droppings
perhaps, am I right?" "OK, come and see for yourself. These are no
pigeon droppings. It’s more like a bear’s turd,” yelled the old man
excitedly. I have to admit that Dennis had had bowl movement
problems for the past few days, and I thought the good old dog
wanted to get rid of it all in case the windstorm lasted for several
days. Or even months. "You always exaggerate, James!" "All right,
come and see!“ the old man screamed angrily. "It’s still warm. This
must have been blown in here straight from some biker’s butt!"
"James!" cried the female voice inside the room, but this time much
angrier. "I’m making dough for your dumplings, and I’m not going
anywhere just because of your paranoia that a biker drove up to the
second floor and parked his bike on the windowsill just to defecate
on our windowpane! Must have been a pigeon." "I’m telling you
it’s still warm!!" the old man roared out into the street. "Have you
touched it, perhaps?" the female voice shrieked out. "No, I just
thrust a thermometer into the shit and now I’m taking its pulse!!"
the old man wheezed, and I was beginning to fear he might pass
out. "Sure enough, I had to touch it when you are too busy to come
and see how other people shit on our window!" A moment of
silence. Followed by a blood-curdling female howl: "OH, MY
GOD, JIMMY, IT’S A TURD!! HOW COULD IT GET HERE,
FOR GOD’S SAKE?!" The old man was also hopping mad, staring
down at the street. Hiding behind the corner with my dog, I didn’t
dare to move, pressing myself to the wall. I was afraid the wind
might push me onto the stage. Right in front of the curtain. "I don’t
know. I haven’t seen a soul. I wonder if it could have come from
above?" "And how about the sewer?" "It’s still warm, I’m telling
you!" the old man yelled in explanation. "Just try yourself!" "HOW
REVOLTING!" the old lady squealed. "FOR GOD’S SAKE, IT’S
STILL WARM, JAMES!" "Well, I’ve been telling you all the
time!" the old man finally obtained his satisfaction. He kept leaning
out of the window, looking around: "Do you think those Ukrainian
window cleaners might be climbing around here again? Do you
remember the last time they rappelled down on the ropes? You
know, when they feel like it they can easily climb up again..." So,
with a little help from me, my dog Dennis created an absolute
mind-bending mystery. And it was definitely unwise to try to
explain it in any way. We sneaked home. Kate was awaiting us and