March 3rd, 2005
Dear Children-Users of Me,
I am your bathroom. This morning I had to send out an emergency signal to the BRT (Bathroom Rescue Patrol), as I was on the verge of death due to drowning – drowning in junk, trash, soap scum, grunge, and gross neglect. I had almost become toxic – toxic to the human body and spirit. I was in great pain – it pained me to be so dirty and cluttered. I was ashamed and embarrassed. I was lonely; as you should realize, I spend most of my days and all of my nights alone and in the dark – uncheered by the entertaining spectacle of marathon group make-up applications or agonized adolescent facial examination. I was desperate. No one had attended to my needs for so long, and I couldn’t help myself. I am, after all, a big inert mass of porcelain, wood, faux marble, and soap-spattered glass. I have no legs but your legs; no arms but your arms. Yet I DO have mirror-eyes all along my back wall, and I see perfectly what you have done to me. (OK, well, sort of perfectly, in a hazy, through-the-smudges sort of way.) I have a heart (that pumps every time the handle gets pushed down, or the spigot gets turned on), and clear liquid life forces that course through their appointed duties as a result. My heart is loyal and true, and has never let you down in your time of need. (OK, hardly ever. Everybody’s entitled to a little plumbing problem every so often. But you have to admit I’ve been remarkably trouble-free. Unlike you guys, who are very troublesome to me and my hygiene.)
You had left me toilet-tissue-less, of all outrages. My lap was overflowing with wet/sticky/messy: hair cleaners, hair conditioners, hair shiners, hair dryers, hair curlers, hair straighteners, brushes, barrettes, bottles; packets, pills, pastes, powders, pads; combs, creams for moistening, creams for drying-up, creams for clearing up; creams for covering up; creams for cleansing, cream soap, cake soap, liquid soap, powdered soap; sprays, squeeze tubes; SIGH. Tweezers for taking out; applicators for putting in. Clothes, Q-tips, towels, gels for gloss, gels for body, gels for straightening out, gels for spiking up. Razors, roll-ons, spray-ons, wipe-ons, rub-ons; back brushes, scrub brushes, tooth brushes, hair brushes, fingernail brushes, blah blah blah blah blah. It was too much. I called for help.
Dr. Madre responded promptly. She came and fixed me; gave me relief. She saved me from you. She patted me kindly and cleaned me up. She appreciated me. She just about freaked out when she saw how badly (or, actually, how well) you had abused me. She put on her war feathers and went to war. You guys are in busted boodles trouble, big time. Heh heh heh heh.
So NOW, you have to pay her a DOLLAR every time you use me – for whatever reason. She will be getting a pay lock for the door. At the end of the week, if I am spotless, she will refund the money. If not, she will grow rich, you will grow poor, and you will never go to college - and will spend your adult life mopping floors at McDonalds during the night shift (and scraping gum off the undersides of the tables during the day shift). All from neglect of me, your favorite friend every morning and every night. More favorite to you even than my cousin, the Kitchen – since some of you actually spend more time in ME.
So, STRAIGHTEN UP or SUFFER.
Sincerely,
Mr. Bano (Your poor neglected, abused Bathroom)