Bathroom strategies

[Pekka]

Originally posted by Imran Siddiqui


QFT

Exactly, however... I mean that is acceptable there. Sure. But if someone comes in when you're ripping, how do you dela with it? JUst ignore them? You can't ignore them. You can ACT as if you're ignoring them but in fact you're very aware of the situation and thus making it only worse for yourself. Then you have to cross that person, and because the bathroom has to be small, your nipples touch. Now that's just embarrasing already. And what do you do then? You feel ashamed.

How about not feeling ashamed at all? I mean do you just walk in and fart and then walk out? WTF? OR do you make poses? Do you squat a little, maybe lift the other leg up first? Or do you just stand erect like a stick, fart few with no emotion as if you were just standing there, waiting the bus, and leave?

You guys are the weird ones. If I ever come across you guys, standing like you were in a crowd, farting like that's the thign to do with no emotion, I make sure our nipples touch and you HAVE to acknowledge my presence. Just to make you know that I know. I'm a sadist like that.

[DrSpike]

Originally posted by Sirotnikov
how much do you mind letting other people hear your ripping / crapping noises?

i usually try to make noises only when i'm alone in the bathroom, or if i'm not, i drop a few squares of TP in the toilet so when I poop it doesn't make a huge splash noise.

This is another area where strategies are needed. I have no problem with other people hearing the noise as long as they will leave before I do, or will still be busy when I leave. That's where the strategy comes in - have they had a big lunch and are set for the afternoon with a newspaper? Or is it just a quick stop.......you can't exactly knock and ask.

You can wait it out, but then more people might come in and we're all busy people (well most of us). If in doubt I usually proceed as planned whilst trying to minimise noise, then wait for the original toliet occupants to leave. But it can be a tight call.

[Imran Siddiqui]

I mean... just acknowledge, say, "your ass just bursted, didn't it? Smells like dead rats. Dead rats that are wet. DUDE get your ass checked out!". At least then you would deport the elephant in the room and would be able to make a sad joke about it. "Yeah, I think my ass is sick, too!".

"Why are we talking about my ass anyway?", "I know, but it's such a nice ass." "ok but I'm not sure if I want you to touch it... OK let's make a deal. You can touch my butt and I can touch your boobs, yes?"

And sex is on.

Then you have to cross that person, and because the bathroom has to be small, your nipples touch.

Seriously. WTFp?!

[Zylka]

My strategy follows an intricate supply and demand formula. When my bowels demand satisfactory release, it's supplied as immediately as possible. With, of course, surrounding social standards taken into consideration.

I've so far as had to gauge public consequence in a city I knew I'd never be in again when confronted with a particularly diaeretic urge on a busy downtown avenue, with no toilet in site. Both affluence and sheer animal threat amongst potential spectators become significant weight in the calculation of action. In this case, the blackberry busy man leaning against a bank pilaster was not sufficient to cork my resolve. Nor was the band of Ethopian street wanderers about 15 feet and a lick of saliva away from asking if I had any spare change. Code red diarrea; demanding immediate resolution.

Immediacy was slightly compromised with the foresight for eventual escape, and I took two swift steps back into a connecting alleyway to at least blind my indiscretion to those a block down the avenue's line of site. With my pants drawn hurriedly about the thighs (the top button actually tore off of my jeans as I opted to forego unzipping) - I let an estimated pound and three quarters of that sort of "babysick mustard" brand onto the cobbled road below. The entire evacuation couldn't have taken more than two pushes and six seconds of agonistic bliss.

Without tissue, or the desire to hand rid my body of the remnants of the particularly acidic unloading, I had to endure 12 more panicked seconds of waving my butt vigorously from side to side - right above the uncivil duty. When the last undergarment threatening piece whipped clear, I pulled my injured denim back around my hips and started scanning for the get-away of least resistance.

The man with the blackberry had since shook his head and walked off swearing, and the urban Ethopian troop seemed now friendly and encouraging in their sudden laughter and clapping of hands. Yet across the street and clamouring in indignance was my worst nightmare; a previously unseen officer of the law, one of those pedestrian cops you see cloaked in a reflective municipal livery and a clasic gym teacher whistle.

Cursing the elevated street centre plack that had likely concealed him during my decision making, my legs instictively lept in the opposite direction and down the terraced pathway adjacent to a butcher's cornershop. Having not at this time known that my jeans and their waist button had long since parted ways, my pants immediately dropped to their prior and rendered my thighs null in the escape effort. My first mistake was in deciding to have them drop further down and to my ankles, instead of re-drawing and holding them about my waist.

Regardless of your views on the use of performance enhancing drugs in Olympic competition, Ben Johnson smashed the 100m dash record just shy of two decades ago - all the while raising his hand out of strict sprinting form near the end. My erroneous calculation was to greedily strive for minimal alteration of body kinetics in the perfect dash; I assumed that I could rid myself of my pants entirely and gain a little bit of time overall in the lengthy chase to ensue (by not having one hand strictly bound to holding my pants in place). A Ferrari pit-stop mechanic doesn't think on this level of risk, when trying to shave a few precious hundredths of a second.

The calculating gesture was in vain by no more than the flailing grasp of a leather glove stitched with "police" in the local language. A powerless fall forward down two of the slightly sloped steps followed, while the officer's desperate momentum ensured his own stumble and eventual impact with the unforgiving ground.

When brought to my feet, a suprised and stout Woman butcher capable of knocking down trees with her kneck came out of the shop's entrance and babbled to the infuriated officer some sort of question, then an answer to his that followed. The officer shoved me into the empty shop, at which point the butcher lady closed the blinds, flipped what can only be assumed as a "closed for 5 minutes" sign, and picked up an incredibly large egg of some variety from a tweed basket that hung above the cash register.

The back room I was taken to held much more than 5 minutes of unsubstantiated and unusual terror for me, and all I will say from here is DON'T DISOBEY THE BASIC RULES OF CIVIL CONDUCT WHEN TRAVELLING ALONG THE UNDEVELOPED ADRIATIC. I have now been subjected to molestive role-play involving animal food products no one would think to exist, and all while under the abuse of a trusted symbol of authority and what would be assumed as a quaint European stereotype of a shop-keeper. I will no longer eat anything prepared with cloves (or 1400 of them wrapped in a fist-sized bundle by thin cheesecloth, to be exact). And I definitely won't look at those funny little hats on the Oscar Myer happy Woman logo and say "gee, I wonder if three of those bound together would suffice to hold a young man up for an alternatively induced fit of auto-erotic exfixiation?"

Cognitive steel wool and turpentine could not rid my mind of the error caused in that day's number two system catastrophe. If that was Chernobyl, three mile island would be having a piping hot quart of broth poured on one's sun-burnt perineum.

[Zoid]

Originally posted by Pekka
Siro, dude, it always happens, doesn't it!? It happens too frequently when you actually fart in your office that someone comes in like few seconds later. Why?

First when you feel like letting some air out, you don't. YOu think someone might come in. Then few mi nutes pass and you're like damn, I should have farted then because no one would have come in! Then you go on about it for some while and then, "ok who cares...". And that's when they have to come in. That's the exact moment.

Oh well, it happens. It's amazingly embarrasing, isn't it? And it doesn't help exactly when people are then polite, they know you just shat your pants like a maniac, and they know you're embarrased now because you know they know, and they act lke nothing happened.

AND THAT MAKES IT WORSE!!!!!

I mean... just acknowledge, say, "your ass just bursted, didn't it? Smells like dead rats. Dead rats that are wet. DUDE get your ass checked out!". At least then you would deport the elephant in the room and would be able to make a sad joke about it. "Yeah, I think my ass is sick, too!".

"Why are we talking about my ass anyway?", "I know, but it's such a nice ass." "ok but I'm not sure if I want you to touch it... OK let's make a deal. You can touch my butt and I can touch your boobs, yes?"

And sex is on.

That's wayyy better than "Uhmm hi, I was just wondering..."

Farting leading to sex

[Zoid]

Originally posted by Zylka
My strategy follows an intricate supply and demand formula. When my bowels demand satisfactory release, it's supplied as immediately as possible. With, of course, surrounding social standards taken into consideration.

I've so far as had to gauge public consequence in a city I knew I'd never be in again when confronted with a particularly diaeretic urge on a busy downtown avenue, with no toilet in site. Both affluence and sheer animal threat amongst potential spectators become significant weight in the calculation of action. In this case, the blackberry busy man leaning against a bank pilaster was not sufficient to cork my resolve. Nor was the band of Ethopian street wanderers about 15 feet and a lick of saliva away from asking if I had any spare change. Code red diarrea; demanding immediate resolution.

Immediacy was slightly compromised with the foresight for eventual escape, and I took two swift steps back into a connecting alleyway to at least blind my indiscretion to those a block down the avenue's line of site. With my pants drawn hurriedly about the thighs (the top button actually tore off of my jeans as I opted to forego unzipping) - I let an estimated pound and three quarters of that sort of "babysick mustard" brand onto the cobbled road below. The entire evacuation couldn't have taken more than two pushes and six seconds of agonistic bliss.

Without tissue, or the desire to hand rid my body of the remnants of the particularly acidic unloading, I had to endure 12 more panicked seconds of waving my butt vigorously from side to side - right above the uncivil duty. When the last undergarment threatening piece whipped clear, I pulled my injured denim back around my hips and started scanning for the get-away of least resistance.

The man with the blackberry had since shook his head and walked off swearing, and the urban Ethopian troop seemed now friendly and encouraging in their sudden laughter and clapping of hands. Yet across the street and clamouring in indignance was my worst nightmare; a previously unseen officer of the law, one of those pedestrian cops you see cloaked in a reflective municipal livery and a clasic gym teacher whistle.

Cursing the elevated street centre plack that had likely concealed him during my decision making, my legs instictively lept in the opposite direction and down the terraced pathway adjacent to a butcher's cornershop. Having not at this time known that my jeans and their waist button had long since parted ways, my pants immediately dropped to their prior and rendered my thighs null in the escape effort. My first mistake was in deciding to have them drop further down and to my ankles, instead of re-drawing and holding them about my waist.

Regardless of your views on the use of performance enhancing drugs in Olympic competition, Ben Johnson smashed the 100m dash record just shy of two decades ago - all the while raising his hand out of strict sprinting form near the end. My erroneous calculation was to greedily strive for minimal alteration of body kinetics in the perfect dash; I assumed that I could rid myself of my pants entirely and gain a little bit of time overall in the lengthy chase to ensue (by not having one hand strictly bound to holding my pants in place). A Ferrari pit-stop mechanic doesn't think on this level of risk, when trying to shave a few precious hundredths of a second.

The calculating gesture was in vain by no more than the flailing grasp of a leather glove stitched with "police" in the local language. A powerless fall forward down two of the slightly sloped steps followed, while the officer's desperate momentum ensured his own stumble and eventual impact with the unforgiving ground.

When brought to my feet, a suprised and stout Woman butcher capable of knocking down trees with her kneck came out of the shop's entrance and babbled to the infuriated officer some sort of question, then an answer to his that followed. The officer shoved me into the empty shop, at which point the butcher lady closed the blinds, flipped what can only be assumed as a "closed for 5 minutes" sign, and picked up an incredibly large egg of some variety from a tweed basket that hung above the cash register.

The back room I was taken to held much more than 5 minutes of unsubstantiated and unusual terror for me, and all I will say from here is DON'T DISOBEY THE BASIC RULES OF CIVIL CONDUCT WHEN TRAVELLING ALONG THE UNDEVELOPED ADRIATIC. I have now been subjected to molestive role-play involving animal food products no one would think to exist, and all while under the abuse of a trusted symbol of authority and what would be assumed as a quaint European stereotype of a shop-keeper. I will no longer eat anything prepared with cloves (or 1400 of them wrapped in a fist-sized bundle by thin cheesecloth, to be exact). And I definitely won't look at those funny little hats on the Oscar Myer happy Woman logo and say "gee, I wonder if three of those bound together would suffice to hold a young man up for an alternatively induced fit of auto-erotic exfixiation?"

Cognitive steel wool and turpentine could not rid my mind of the error caused in that day's number two system catastrophe. If that was Chernobyl, three mile island would be having a piping hot quart of broth poured on one's sun-burnt perineum.

[Sir Og]

I approve of this thread

[Q Classic]

Originally posted by Zoid


Farting leading to sex

I'm sure Rule 34 applies here?

[b etor]

you are correct.

[VetLegion]

Originally posted by Zylka
The back room I was taken to held much more than 5 minutes of unsubstantiated and unusual terror for me, and all I will say from here is DON'T DISOBEY THE BASIC RULES OF CIVIL CONDUCT WHEN TRAVELLING ALONG THE UNDEVELOPED ADRIATIC. I have now been subjected to molestive role-play involving animal food products no one would think to exist, and all while under the abuse of a trusted symbol of authority and what would be assumed as a quaint European stereotype of a shop-keeper.

Wow Zykla I didn't see you post in years but you seem to have been busy with the important stuff. Your essay could be partially true, however it most definitely didn't happen anywhere on the Adriatic coast. In the interests of Croatian tourism I felt obliged to point this out.

[Pekka]

Vet, I don't mean to get any credit for the return of Zylka, but think about it. How can you not read a thread that says, "Bathroom Strategies".

You know how vital this is? No man on earth would turn away from it. We need to know this, we need to know the strategies. Ok? Essential, vital, pure, real, you pick what you want but bathroom strategies is a topic rarely discussed, yet something we do and I'm just ... my altruistic agenda is to just simply share my knowledge and hopefully learn something from you and as a result we all are better bathroom players. Who wouldn't want that? THis is a public service, I should actually get paid to do this.

[Provost Harrison]

Talk about overanalysing. I just go to the one that is cleanest with toilet roll still available. Did you think about the availability of toilet roll Pekka? Did you?

Now hang on, did you say you take your underpants and trousers off to fart? That is bordering on OCD...

[Sirotnikov]

Says the man with the smelly pants!

[Pekka]

PH, man, first of all, this strategy works like a charm. It doesn't take hours to use it. It is INSTANT. Why would you go and check out all the toilets if you in fact already know the odds? Yes, any two cards can win at any moment, but in the long run, it is skill that makes you a winning player.

TP? That is most likely more used with the ones most used, again, if you see there is none, you know the next best option and try that instead.

We don't have time to waste, looking for the perfect booth. Second of all, yes, I don't need to make any compromises. Because I have a strategy and it works. I mean whatever, if you want to go and conquer the world without a map... sure. Do that. But at least I know where I'm going and that's important to me, maybe it isn't so important to you, but hey I want to make the most of it when were here.

How do you think we got to the moon? We had strategies, we based it on science, we had predictability! That's what a lot of science is all about, to model the world around us, so we can use it to our advantage and do completely new things. No, it's not crazy, we can fly to the moon. We can predict, we can base stuff on solid science, so we can build new stuff and do new things and know more. It's all about strategies and not wandering like yeah it doesn't matter.

Well it very well does matter to some people, people like me. So stop insulting me with having strategies as if it's a bad thing. It just means I already know.

[DrSpike]

Originally posted by Pekka
PH, man, first of all, this strategy works like a charm. It doesn't take hours to use it. It is INSTANT. Why would you go and check out all the toilets if you in fact already know the odds? Yes, any two cards can win at any moment, but in the long run, it is skill that makes you a winning player.

And there is the practical difficulty that you don't want to be seen inspecting the toilets. That has to factor into the strategy.