O O Ø O O O O
Potty Mouth
I don’t know if you’ve been keeping up with the latest innovations in porta-potties.
It’s not like I really have, either. Honestly, I don’t subscribe to the porta-potty trade journal, or anything. I just find myself using them every once in a while, and I can’t help noticing there have been some changes of late. If you’re wondering what’s motivating this little round of potty-talk, it’s folk festival time again. In fact, I’m supposed to be packing for the annual trek to Winnipeg as I write this. Don’t say I’m not dedicated to the pintday.org readership. Oh, and don’t tell Laura.
One of the more recent potty-innovations, at least around these parts, has been the introduction of hand-sanitizer-gel-dispensers in or around the porta-potty area at outdoor festivals. This gel is neat stuff. If you haven’t used it, the routine goes a little something like this. Rub it on, and within a few seconds, the gel evaporates, presumably taking all the nasty little bacteria with it. There is no running water required, no garbage problem to deal with, and it feels pretty damned cool to boot.
It was on my eighth or ninth trip to the porta-potties (coincidently occurring with my eighth or ninth pint) when I finally noticed the small print under the gel dispenser. It read:
“Not a replacement for soap and water.”
And of course, this got me thinking. I know this sign must have placed there because some idiot with a high-priced lawyer did something dumb. You know—the kind of idiot that pours coffee in her lap, and is surprised when her private parts start blistering. But honestly, if the anti-bacterial gel in the porta-potty isn’t intended as a replacement for soap and water, what the hell is it there for?
You’re standing there, having washed and dried your hands like your mamma taught you, and suddenly you find yourself facing a closed door last handled by Joe Splashback.
I mean, it’s an antibacterial agent. If it is doing its job right, any little nasties on your hands will be dead after you use it. Isn’t that the whole purpose of washing your hands after doing your business?
Okay, some might argue that using soap and water actually remove the dirt and nasties, but riddle me this: Say you make an error while doing your thing, and you end up with, well, shit on your hands. A few squirts of anti-bacterial gel and some brisk rubbing later, you find yourself facing a philosophical question. Are your hands now clean? Is shit without the bacteria still shit? If not, what is it?
It’s ironic, because porta-potties with anti-bac gel are probably more sanitary than your average public washroom. Why? Because at least with gel, you have the option of sanitizing your hands after you’ve stopped touching the various infested surfaces. Simply finish up, open door, squirt, rub, and run.
Most public washrooms, though they do supply you with soap and water, require you to grab the door handle to leave the room. See where this is leading? You’re standing there, having washed and dried your hands like your mamma taught you, and suddenly you find yourself facing a closed door last handled by Joe Splashback. No thanks. This is why many oft-frequented mens’ washrooms leave the door propped open. Other than the obvious aim component, a trip to a well thought-out public loo should be a no-hands experience. Failing that, the paper towel dispenser (and garbage receptacle) should be situated close to the door, facilitating the old dry, grab, and toss routine.
But alas, designers of public washrooms never seem to think of these things. Hardly surprising, since these are the same folks who seem to think someone who has taken barely 30 seconds to pee is going to spend the next four minutes drying his hands under a glorified heat register. No, I’ll take the gel any day.
Just a little something to think about during your next trip to the loo. Speaking of, I have a long drive ahead of me. It’s time to get rid of some of this coffee.
Happy folkfest, all.
Kjell Wooding
Tuesday, June 9,
2002
PD
DLV