Scary Holiday Tales: On going to ze shitter, part two
"There is no way on God's Earth that I'm using that German toilet with the shelf."
"You're not? What - pray - is wrong with Adolf Shitler?"
"In fact, I'm going to use the proper, English toilet in Scaryduckling's room."
Scaryduckling's luxuriously-appointed facilities are set between two mirrors, and there is nothing - NOTHING - more disconcerting than watching at least a dozen reflected versions of yourself wiping their arses in unison. Especially when one of them is waving back at you.
Back to the German bog, then, where, after a couple of regretable hit-and-miss episodes, I have finally perfected the Reverse Cowgirl.
"A nation," Napoleon once remarked, "may be judged by the way that it goes to the toilet."
And he should know, being French, squatting over a hole in the ground, veins throbbing on his majestic temples, knowing deep down that his plans to take over the world are already doomed.
And yet, so disgusted am I at the whole process, I still end up flushing twice. Once to dispose of the foul presence, and twice at the conclusion of business.
Hardly Vorsprung durch Technik.