I want to tell you about my roommate. For those three of you who read my column on a regular basis, you know she, Claire, functions as a constant source of amusement. Yes, she most definitely has a sparkling sense of humor, but a sizeable chunk of this entertainment is of the accidental variety, which is to say Claire makes a fool of herself quite often.
To add insult to injury, many of Claire’s moments of amusement involve bodily functions. Now before you dismiss this column as 800 words written by a 22-year-old with an appreciation for potty humor, allow me to say this: Yes, my potty-humor enthusiasm is only matched by that of six-year-old boys, ones likely named Rex or Dick. Still, there exist golden nuggets of hilarity within each of these stories, so I insist you keep reading.
A human pooper scooper
Hot, consensual tail can be hard to come by any day of the week, but especially when you are an awkward 16-year-old. Claire was aware of this fact, thus when she got the urge to go whilst interlocking braces with the dreamiest boy from social studies class, she made the executive decision that a little turd in the tunnel was not going to ruin her evening of “7th Heaven”-style romance.
Excusing herself ever so politely from her horizontal position on the couch, Claire walked over to the bathroom, located conveniently close (and within earshot) to the couch from which she came. After doing her business, Claire tried to flush the toilet. To her dismay, there was not even a whimper of plumbing action. Neither the water nor her date-threatening dookie moved in what had now become a porcelain hellhole.
Claire went into panic mode. She was not going to be the one to prove girls do, in fact, poop. As such, she did what any horny teen would (not) do in that situation: She submerged her toilet paper wrapped hand into the commode to retrieve the item, wrapping it generously in toilet paper then tossing it in the wastebasket. After what I hope was a fierce hand washing, Claire returned to her previous position on the couch.
Unsurprisingly, the two never spoke after this interaction. Claire insists it was because of the inevitable awkwardness that arises post-canoodling. I suspect, however, it was the result of the bathroom’s fresh-as-daises smell the next day.
You say garbage can, I say toilet
When you gotta go, you gotta go! Apparently, that is Claire’s motto, and one that becomes especially relevant after a night of Hopalicious.
Now I understand there comes a point in the evening when the seal has been broken and each urge to tinkle must be addressed promptly. Such was the case one Friday evening. I had stayed home for what was supposed to be a night of productivity but was really just hours of Etsy indulgence. Claire returned from the bars around 2 a.m., insisting she use the bathroom I was currently occupying. I told her I would be out in a minute, but as it turned out, a minute was too long.
I emerged from the bathroom to find Claire in the hallway with an evil look on her face.
“What did you do?” I asked.
After fighting a losing war with the giggles, she responded, “I peed in my garbage can!”
As stories like the ones above and below might suggest, I was less than surprised. I laughed, saying the bathroom was free for her to empty it out in.
“Nah, I’m tired. I’ll deal with it in the morning,” she said before rushing off to bed.
Again, I understand the need to go, but parking garage stairwells have taught me there is little worse than the smell of stale pee. I am just glad she slept with the door closed and hogged the smell for herself.
Wrapped up in gold
When your friend drunkenly wets the bed in which you are both sleeping, it would seem inevitable that said bed wetter would be the one most worthy of ridicule. This is not the case when Claire is the one with whom she is sharing the bed.
Last May, Claire went out to celebrate her good friend’s graduation. The night was—as it should be—a riotous one that led to them both passing out in Claire’s bed. Both had partaken in a wee too much imbibing, moving her friend to lose control of her bladder and leave embarrassed around six in the morning.
This would seem a fitting end to the story. What is more embarrassing, after all, than wetting the bed at age 22? Knowingly sleeping in urine-soaked sheets, that’s what. Claire remained in bed until noon when this same friend called her to see if she wanted to grab lunch. When she heard Claire had been marinating in her secretions all morning, the invite was taken off the table and a shower was advised.
Would you kill your roommate if she wrote a story detailing your most embarrassing moments? Well, that is why you are not as cool as Claire, but feel free to tell Jacqueline why at jgoreilly@wisc.edu.
