Category Archives: Toilets

Joyless Stuff


One of the many gifts of the internet is the constant stream of new crazes that make their way into our homes, whether it be through news or social media. Pretty much every day there’s something you can join in. Yesterday I saw “extreme phone pinching” – people posting photos of themselves holding their phones between thumb and forefinger over places that it would be highly inadvisable to drop a phone. Like a deep hole. Or a toilet. The risk/reward quotient of this seems a little out of balance – loss of a phone that seems to be (at least for these people) a gateway to their whole sense of self-worth, versus a photo that someone might “like” tomorrow. It’s beyond stupid, and one can only anticipate the evolution of this fad, until we get a new series of “my penis dangling over the spinning blades of the blender” photos.

Some crazes, however, are more durable, providing far greater opportunity for the participant to spend money and waste time, while endlessly immersing themselves in social media contacts with like-minded devotees. Decluttering is one such activity – it has gone beyond a generic desire to throw shit away, to become a “lifestyle”, with its own guru, a brand name, and books you can buy to help you transform your meaningless existence and find inner peace. The KonMari method is one popular approach, and an article I failed to avoid reading today described how one should review one’s possessions and keep only those things that bring “joy”.

Wow. Joy. That’s a high bar. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I can pretty much walk through my whole house and pick up everything I own in turn, and I doubt there’s a single thing in there that would bring me “joy”. It could be because I have a sad, meaningless existence, and am in desperate need of decluttering, but I suspect that’s not the case. I don’t have any desire to self-harm; I don’t find myself weeping uncontrollably for no reason as I sit, rocking back and forth, on the stairs; I certainly appear to spend way too much time laughing and enjoying myself for that to be the case. But none of the crap I own brings me joy.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with that. Here’s a thought – how much joy can one expect to receive from owning a toilet brush? Not a polished ivory, diamond-studded Kardashian model, just a simple plastic bog brush. Couple of dollars from WalMart. Not exactly a needle-mover on the joy scale. This morning, however, partly as a result of Bison Daughter’s bread and cake making day yesterday, I happened to, how do I put this delicately, manage to block the toilet. Not “plunger and plumber” block, just a giant U-shaped sausage stuck in the bottom of the bowl, receiving the flush like a dead seal, impervious to pressure. There was the plastic brush – one small push and everything went on its way. Joy? Not really. But relative to the “no brush” alternative, it was a pretty good option. Maybe a toilet brush doesn’t bring joy, but having to break up a turd with your fingers would be about the opposite of joy.

And that, I would suggest, is the reason for most of the stuff we have in our homes that would otherwise be called clutter. It brings us no joy for 364 days of the year, and then on one day we need it. I get no joy from a box of assorted screws and nails, at least until I need one and can pick one out rather than drive fifteen minutes to the hardware store, buy a packet, drive home, find out they’re the wrong ones, swear, drive back, wait in line to return them, buy another packet and drive home again. I don’t need dried milk, until I run out of milk, and I don’t need my electric pump until my tire goes flat.

Stuff is a bit like insurance. It’s a complete waste of money, until you need it, and then you’re glad you have it. The purpose of stuff is not so much to bring joy as to avoid misery, or at least irritation and minor unhappiness. Arranging stuff makes sense, if it makes you happier, but not if it’s so you can post a picture on Facebook and show off to your friends in the KonMari club. And certainly not if you become some weird, nervous, OCD bitch, constantly fretting that someone left a book out.

Do I have shit in my house that I could throw away? Sure. And I will, when I move house. Until then it can stay down in the basement and give the spiders something to play with. Because, when you think about it, even arachnids deserve some joy in their lives.

No Room Up Front

I think it’s fair to assume that if there’s a heaven and a hell, there will be a special place in the latter reserved for home builders. I just bought a town home in St.Louis, for reasons too tedious to enumerate, and on the face of it it’s a nice abode. OK, the walls are newspaper-thin, and bits of siding might drop off for no apparent reason, but when you’re dealing with the average US home builder your expectations had better not be high at the outset…

To enjoy the rest of this “toilet story”  see my book


One Flush Or Two?

It’s been well over a hundred years since the introduction of the flushing toilet, an innovation that, for obvious reasons, greatly improved upon the previous practice of “throwing your shit out of the window”. (Although, living as I do on the twentieth floor of an apartment building, I can’t help occasionally being tempted.) Since the popularization of the toilet it’s been left to the natural processes of competition and market forces to refine and improve on the original…

… to continue reading this most excellent story see my book

Airline Taking The Piss

The list of things that are a pain in the arse when flying is a long one, made ever longer by the almost unbelievable arrogance of semi-literate so-called security personnel, who have barely graduated from flipping burgers but now have a bright blue TSA uniform, which apparently comes complete with a lobotomy and a massive ego infusion. It’s a pain in the arse getting to the airport, parking at the airport, checking in, shuffling through the security lines, being ordered to perform completely different but equally useless routines in the interests of “security”, traipsing through crappy lounges, consuming overpriced and shitty food and eventually boarding an outdated plane, staffed by surly and ancient flight attendants, determined to get through the flight with the minimum of actual effort, on the basis that they are there “primarily for your security”, i.e. to order you around rather than serve you.

That said, airlines are constantly on the lookout for new ways to fuck with you in-flight, hence the much-heralded decision by All Nippon Airlines to introduce women-only toilets on their planes. It’s bad enough already trying to take a piss on a plane. For a start they don’t want you getting up until well after take-off and they make you sit down more than half an hour before landing, for no fucking good reason. In between time, if you’re not in an aisle seat, good fucking luck getting up, crawling over your corpulent seatmate, getting past the cart in the aisle and getting through the line at the toilet before the seatbelt sign comes on and some miserable flight attendant bitch, made bitter by getting fucked all ways by pilots for forty years and never marrying one, orders you back to your seat.

There are never enough toilets on planes, largely because seats can be sold, whereas toilets are a non-revenue generating waste of space. (Unless you’re that Ryanair wanker who wants to charge for their use.) Taking one of these rare and sacred appliances and turning it over for the exclusive use of women makes no fucking sense.

Apparently the airline did a survey, and women identified dedicated toilets as their number two need (number two – geddit?) right after desserts. (Here’s a thought ladies – if you spent a little less time hitting the desserts you might not have to spend quite so much time in the can.) Why is this? There was some mumbling about men leaving the seat up, or leaving a mess, but I could just as easily complain that they leave the seat down, and what’s more, I am reliably informed that women’s public toilets are by far in worse state than men’s, due in no small part to women’s unwillingness to actually sit on the seat, preferring to spray indiscriminately from a great height.

What pisses me off most is that this is a typical double-standard. If men were granted dedicated urinals on planes there’d be a fucking outcry, with women picketing the airline’s offices and N.O.W. lezzas in full warcry. Besides, regardless of the cause, it’s simply a fact that there are more men flying in business class than women. Always. And there aren’t enough bogs to go around now, so how does it make sense to dedicate one to the two women flying?

Actually I’d suggest that men-only toilets would make a lot more sense. Many’s the time I’ve taken the overnight flight to Europe, where you arrive at around 7am, ready to work a full day. You try and sleep on the plane as long as possible, meaning that ideally you wake up, take a piss and land. But the chances are that one of the two women in business class will scuttle into the toilet clasping her make-up bag and then you can forget about anyone else having access for the rest of the flight. The bitch will be in there for twenty minutes, making herself “presentable”, and emerging just in time for the wizened old flight attendant to order you back to your seat. Again.

The rule should be “The toilet is for piss, shit, and, maybe, just maybe, cleaning your teeth. For anything else please wait until you fucking land. Bitch.”

Of course I’m expecting that the dickheads that All Nippon Airlines did just as good a job polling men on what would make their flight more enjoyable. If so, I shall look forward to the cigar bar, extensive range of scotch, free blow job and full English breakfast on my next flight. Yeah right…

Copyright © 2010 Edward Bison

Toilet Traders

I was reading a news article from the UK about a bloke who stabbed a gay accountant to death in a public toilet which was described as a “well-known venue for homosexuals who would meet there for sex”. What caught my attention was not the knife attack, or even the claim by the killer that the dead man had previously accosted him in the toilet, but the fact that gay men are still apparently hanging around public lavatories looking for people to fuck in the arse.

I could probably understand why, many years ago, with no way to meet other gay men and maybe no possibility to “come out”, homosexuals would be drawn to places like that, although I’m buggered if I can see why any bloke would want to shag another bloke. What gets me is that we’re now in the twenty-first century. The internet allows people to hook up practically anywhere they want, with anyone they want, to do pretty much anything they want. At the same time homosexuality has progressed from a taboo to practically being compulsory. Governments are bending over backwards to pander to the “rights” of this militant and demanding minority. (Which, to be fair, is probably better than bending over forwards.) Just look at this example of political correctness – a fire engine takes a detour to shine flashlights on gay men fucking each other in the open air (a criminal offence, by the way, whether you’re gay or straight), presumably for a laugh. Oh no! You’ve infringed on their “rights” so you have to be punished. Hang on a minute, no-one has a “right” to break the law. If people don’t want to be ridiculed for having sex in public then there’s a very simple solution – don’t have sex in public. Go home, or get a room, for fuck’s sake.

The excessive “sensitivity” to the “needs” of the “gay community” has resulted in them apparently being given a free pass on criminal activity. If this public toilet was so well-known as a place for homosexual sex, why weren’t the sex criminals who operated there arrested. Yes, people who have sex in public toilets when the law says it’s forbidden are sex criminals. No-one in their right mind goes to a public toilet unless they have to. Maybe it was those six pints of cheap lager at lunch time, or that ill-advised chicken vindaloo last night which is now threatening to melt away your sphincter, but when the call comes, the object of the exercise is to get in, get done, and get the fuck out ASAP.

No-one wants to find themselves perched on the cracked porcelain reading graffiti invitations to “suck my huge cock”, or wondering if anything is about to be thrust through the hole that someone has made in the cubicle wall. No-one wants to hear some bloke getting one up the Gary Glitter in the adjoining stall. At least no-one who I’d want to meet. Let’s face it, if your idea of a good time is ending up balls-deep in some other man’s arse, on a cracked and piss-soaked floor, as he bends over a shit-stained toilet bowl then you’ve got real problems. Is it a victimless crime? I think not. Just imagine some bloke hanging around the Ladies toilet, drilling holes in the wall and asking girls if they’d like a fuck; he’d be arrested in a heartbeat. So why is it OK for blokes to do that to other blokes?

There’s no excuse for it now. It’s not done out of a “need” as a result of gay men being unable to “find ways to meet each other”. There’s fucking parades of them in major cities, and thousands of web sites dedicated to them. So why does George Michael want to fuck strangers in the bog? And, more importantly, why should he be allowed to get away with it?

The bloke with the knife in the story I read didn’t seem to be the most stable of characters, and who knows what the truth was there, but it used to be assumed that if you accosted a stranger in the khazi you were justifiably risking a good kicking. Nowadays you’d probably be arrested and branded a homophobe for punching out a bloke who approached you in a public toilet with his dick in his hand.

What I really can’t understand, though, is that gays are supposed to be so much more classy than the rest of us. That whole Queer Eye For The Straight Guy thing played on the stereotype of the gay man who was better dressed, better groomed, and better at interior decor than any heterosexual bloke. So if they’re going to hang out in the public bog, why don’t they clean up in there, hang some drapes, upgrade the toilet paper, provide good quality hand-soap, use pastel colors to create the illusion of space in each cubicle, and improve the atmosphere with some pot-pourri? A couple of uphill gardeners lurking by the sink with a hopeful look in their eye might be a small price to pay for a bog in which you’d atually look forward to parting company with that chicken vindaloo.

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Too Much Paperwork

The beach house we stayed in last week had this great booth-style table with a window that looked out over a couple of neighboring gardens towards the sea and it was a good place to sit. You could watch surfers arriving in their Subaru/VW minivan (delete as appropriate). You could watch little clouds moving lazily across a deep blue sky. You could watch hummingbirds circling some apparently irresistible plant outside. And you could watch the labrador next door wander out onto the grass and evacuate its bowels…

Continued in the most amazing toilet book ever written Mr Bison’s Journal


Lunch Special

First let me reassure you that this isn’t one of those stories about some bloke dropping his guts in hideous fashion and driving me out in a paroxysm of choking and retching. No, the bathroom was clean and vacant, meaning that I could point Junior Bison at the porcelain without having to suffer some geezer at the adjacent pissoir attempting to make conversation:

…continue reading this toilet adventure in Mr Bison’s Journal, a fabulously funny new book

A Wonderful Idea

A terrible thing happened yesterday; we finished the box of Cadbury’s chocolate biscuits that we bought for Christmas. It wasn’t a big box (actually a tin) but you always hope that when you lift out the black plastic insert that there will be another layer of biscuits underneath, even if it’s desperately obvious just from examining the depth of the tin that it couldn’t be the case.

…read more of this story in Mr Bison’s Journal