Cool Toilets Quotes

What’s your favorite part about summers at Camp Half-Blood? Percy: Seeing my friends, for sure. It’s so cool to come back to camp after a year in school. It’s like coming home. The first day of summer, I’ll walk down to the cabins and Connor and Travis are stealing stuff from the camp store, and Silena is arguing with Annabeth trying to give her a makeover, and Clarisse is still sticking the new kids’ heads into the toilets. It’s nice that some things never change.

The officious swagger in her gait might have been some flavor of self-possession or the cool skedaddle of a shoplifter making for the door. In either case, the streamer of toilet paper that trailed from the waistband of her tiny skirt like the banner of an advertising airplane pretty much spoiled the effect.

All those posters and PSAs and health class presentations on body image and the way you can burst blood vessels in your face and rupture your esophagus if you can’t stop ramming those sno balls down your throat every night, knowing they’ll have to come back up again, you sad weak girl. Because of all this, Coach surely can’t tell a girl, a sensitive, body-conscious teenage girl, to get rid of the tender little tuck around her waist, can she? She can. Coach can say anything. And there’s Emily, keening over the toilet bowl after practice, begging me to kick her in the gut so she can expel the rest, all that cookie dough and cool ranch, the smell making me roil. Emily, a girl made entirely of donut sticks, cheese powder, and haribo. I kick, I do. She would do the same for me.

If you were trying to startle us half to death, you succeeded,” she told him as she closed the distance between them. He responded with an angry growl, “The only thing I was trying to do was cool my a..., er, butt off.” “What?” Not the reply she had expected to get from him. “Those little shits,” he huffed, pointing in the direction of the boys’ cabins, “slipped Ex-Lax into my coffee this morning!” “How do you know it’s not just a stomach bug?” He grunted his impatience. “Because I discovered the laxative box in the boys’ bathroom garbage, alongside the empty jar of Icy Hot those delinquents thought would be funny to smear all over the toilet seat in the boys’ bathroom.” Water ran down his tanned face, spewing from his lips as he ranted angrily. No wonder Dalton had virtually flew, pants half undone, into the lake. Her lips began to twitch. This isn’t funny, she told herself. “Are you okay?” Was he okay? Dalton arched a wet brow. “My innards aren’t threatening to combust any longer, but my ass is still burning.

Oh my god,” I shrieked. “Who did I screw over in a former life that those douches get to go to cool cities and I have to go home to an island called Hung?” “Those douches do have hairy asses and not just on a full moon. You’re the only female agent I have that looks like a model so you’re going to Georgia. Period.” “Fine. I’ll quit. I’ll open a bakery.” Angela smiled and an icky feeling skittered down my spine. “Excellent, I’ll let you tell the Council that all the money they invested in your training is going to be flushed down the toilet

Once upon a time, a prince asked a beautiful princess, “Will you marry me?” The princess said, “No.” And so the prince lived happily ever after and rode motorcycles and hunted and raced cars and drank whiskey and beer and Patron tequila and smoked Marlboro reds and never paid child support or alimony and ate what he wanted and kept his house and guns and never got cheated on while he was at work and all his friends and family thought he was friggin’ cool as hell and had tons of money in the bank and left the toilet seat up. The end. Very funny and very true… if you’re a boy.

I’m so stressed that a weird Olympic-style commentary starts up in my head. And here we have Zelah Green, the fourteen-year-old champion of rituals, attempting the afternoon toilet-touching event for the first time … I take my first faltering step towards the rim. And she’s approaching the target, booms the voice. Steady approach, good footwork … My right hand, naked and trembling, is now hovering over the inside of the toilet. Will she set a new world record? screams the voice. Will Zelah Green take the gold medal for bravery and/or total stupidity? ‘I’m going in!’ I say. I skim the curved cool surface of the bowl with the fingertips of my right hand and jump back as if I’ve been electrified. And she’s done it! shrieks the commentator. Zelah Green wins the gold medal for toilet touching!

He's got a cat tied to the seat of the toilet and a bubble bath all set for someone to jump in. I excused myself for a second and went over to the kitchenette and popped a couple of Valiums. I was already loaded on junk but I could see this was going to be strictly from fruit. When I got back in the john he was already naked and in the tub frosted in bubbles . . . the poor cat was still chained to the john seat, yelping away. The guy laid his plan on me. He wants me to whip the cat dead after I first piss on him in his bubble bath, then when the cat has had it I'm to jerk off into his mouth while he's still in the tub. Out from under the bubbles he hands me a whip, a tiny cat size whip with leather fringes laced with broken ends of razors. ... I untied the cat, he tried to get up and stop me, I punched his chump face, he landed back on his ass in the tub and I gave him the whip across the chest . . . a nasty wound. . . . I grabbed his hair, opened his mouth and pissed in it . . . he spit it out, the piss mixing with the blood oozing from his lip from the punch and he let out a slow motion yell at the sting of urine dripping into the cuts on his chest. He sank under water to cool the burn, I rifled his wallet for sixty bucks, picked up the kitty and split.

Domestic If, when studying road atlases while taking, as you call it, your morning dump, you shout down to me names like Miami City, Franconia, Cancún, as places for you to take me to from here, can I help it if all I can think is things that are stupid, like he loves me he loves me not? I don’t think so. No more than, some mornings, waking to your hands around me, and remembering these are the fingers, the hands I’ve over and over given myself to, I can stop myself from wondering does that mean they’re the same I’ll grow old with. Yesterday, in the café I keep meaning to show you, I thought this is how I’ll die maybe, alone, somewhere too far away from wherever you are then, my heart racing from espresso and too many cigarettes, my head down on the table’s cool marble, and the ceiling fan turning slowly above me, like fortune, the part of fortune that’s half-wished- for only—it did not seem the worst way. I thought this is another of those things I’m always forgetting to tell you, or don’t choose to tell you, or I tell you but only in the same way, each morning, I keep myself from saying too loud I love you until the moment you flush the toilet, then I say it, when the rumble of water running down through the house could mean anything: flood, your feet descending the stairs any moment; any moment the whole world, all I want of the world, coming down.

When we arrived at the wedding at Marlboro Man’s grandparents’ house, I gasped. People were absolutely everywhere: scurrying and mingling and sipping champagne and laughing on the lawn. Marlboro Man’s mother was the first person I saw. She was an elegant, statuesque vision in her brown linen dress, and she immediately greeted and welcomed me. “What a pretty suit,” she said as she gave me a warm hug. Score. Success. I felt better about life. After the ceremony, I’d meet Cousin T., Cousin H., Cousin K., Cousin D., and more aunts, uncles, and acquaintances than I ever could have counted. Each family member was more gracious and welcoming than the one before, and it didn’t take long before I felt right at home. This was going well. This was going really, really well. It was hot, though, and humid, and suddenly my lightweight wool suit didn’t feel so lightweight anymore. I was deep in conversation with a group of ladies--smiling and laughing and making small talk--when a trickle of perspiration made its way slowly down my back. I tried to ignore it, tried to will the tiny stream of perspiration away, but one trickle soon turned into two, and two turned into four. Concerned, I casually excused myself from the conversation and disappeared into the air-conditioned house. I needed to cool off. I found an upstairs bathroom away from the party, and under normal circumstances I would have taken time to admire its charming vintage pedestal sinks and pink hexagonal tile. But the sweat profusely dripping from all pores of my body was too distracting. Soon, I feared, my jacket would be drenched. Seeing no other option, I unbuttoned my jacket and removed it, hanging it on the hook on the back of the bathroom door as I frantically looked around the bathroom for an absorbent towel. None existed. I found the air vent on the ceiling, and stood on the toilet to allow the air-conditioning to blast cool air on my face. Come on, Ree, get a grip, I told myself. Something was going on…this was more than simply a reaction to the August humidity. I was having some kind of nervous psycho sweat attack--think Albert Brooks in Broadcast News--and I was being held captive by my perspiration in the upstairs bathroom of Marlboro Man’s grandmother’s house in the middle of his cousin’s wedding reception. I felt the waistband of my skirt stick to my skin. Oh, God…I was in trouble. Desperate, I stripped off my skirt and the stifling control-top panty hose I’d made the mistake of wearing; they peeled off my legs like a soggy banana skin. And there I stood, naked and clammy, my auburn bangs becoming more waterlogged by the minute. So this is it, I thought. This is hell. I was in the throes of a case of diaphoresis the likes of which I’d never known. And it had to be on the night of my grand entrance into Marlboro Man’s family. Of course, it just had to be. I looked in the mirror, shaking my head as anxiety continued to seep from my pores, taking my makeup and perfumed body cream along with it. Suddenly, I heard the knock at the bathroom door. “Yes? Just a minute…yes?” I scrambled and grabbed my wet control tops. “Hey, you…are you all right in there?” God help me. It was Marlboro Man.

Suddenly he felt his foot catch on something and he stumbled over one of the trailing cables that lay across the laboratory floor. The cable went tight and pulled one of the instruments monitoring the beam over, sending it falling sideways and knocking the edge of the frame that held the refractive shielding plate in position. For what seemed like a very long time the stand wobbled back and forth before it tipped slowly backwards with a crash. ‘Take cover!’ Professor Pike screamed, diving behind one of the nearby workbenches as the other Alpha students scattered, trying to shield themselves behind the most solid objects they could find. The beam punched straight through the laboratory wall in a cloud of vapour and alarm klaxons started wailing all over the school. Professor Pike scrambled across the floor towards the bundle of thick power cables that led to the super-laser, pulling them from the back of the machine and extinguishing the bright green beam. ‘Oops,’ Franz said as the emergency lighting kicked in and the rest of the Alphas slowly emerged from their hiding places. At the back of the room there was a perfectly circular, twenty-centimetre hole in the wall surrounded by scorch marks. ‘I am thinking that this is not being good.’ Otto walked cautiously up to the smouldering hole, glancing nervously over his shoulder at the beam emitter that was making a gentle clicking sound as it cooled down. ‘Woah,’ he said as he peered into the hole. Clearly visible were a series of further holes beyond that got smaller and smaller with perspective. Dimly visible at the far end was what could only be a small circle of bright daylight. ‘Erm, I don’t know how to tell you this, Franz,’ Otto said, turning towards his friend with a broad grin on his face, ‘but it looks like you just made a hole in the school.’ ‘Oh dear,’ Professor Pike said, coming up beside Otto and also peering into the hole. ‘I do hope that we haven’t damaged anything important.’ ‘Or anyone important,’ Shelby added as she and the rest of the Alphas gathered round. ‘It is not being my fault,’ Franz moaned. ‘I am tripping over the cable.’ A couple of minutes later, the door at the far end of the lab hissed open and Chief Dekker came running into the room, flanked by two guards in their familiar orange jumpsuits. Otto and the others winced as they saw her. It was well known already that she had no particular love for H.I.V.E.’s Alpha stream and she seemed to have a special dislike for their year in particular. ‘What happened?’ she demanded as she strode across the room towards the Professor. Her thin, tight lips and sharp cheekbones gave the impression that she was someone who’d heard of this thing called smiling but had decided that it was not for her. ‘There was a slight . . . erm . . . malfunction,’ the Professor replied with a fleeting glance in Franz’s direction. ‘Has anyone been injured?’ ‘It doesn’t look like it,’ Dekker replied tersely, ‘but I think it’s safe to say that Colonel Francisco won’t be using that particular toilet cubicle again.’ Franz visibly paled at the thought of the Colonel finding out that he had been in any way responsible for whatever indignity he had just suffered. He had a sudden horribly clear vision of many laps of the school gym somewhere in his not too distant future.

All’s Fair Every honeymoon has an ending. Even in the best of marriages, spouses inevitably have spats. Successful wives say they learned early how to take strife in stride; many, in fact, insist that the freedom to argue is essential in maintaining a stable marriage. Most fights focus on minor but recurring issues. Skirmishes grow into battles, battles into wars—over how high to set the thermostat, how loud to make the television, who holds the remote, what time to set the clock radio, who showers first, which way the toilet paper faces, and of course, the position in which the toilet seat is left. Over time, the process of fighting often becomes more important than the content of the fights. “We never solve anything by fighting,” one wife says. “We just sort of let off steam.” Whatever they argue about, when the smoke clears and the air cools, most wives feel better for having boiled over. Whether or not issues are resolved, they’re able to blow up, make up and move on. No harm done.

I consider, momentarily, running off to the loo to do a better fix-up job on myself, but what if Luca comes back and doesn’t find me here? I can’t go over to the bar and tell him I’m going to the loo and to wait for me, because the mere thought of trying to communicate the word “toilet” to him makes me wish for the group to open up and swallow me whole. What if he doesn’t understand? What if I have to do some sort of mime to explain? I’d rather die. So I pat my face down, pull out the lip gloss from my handbag and reapply it, pray that some of my perfume is still clinging to my pores--hopefully canceling out any sweaty stink--and surreptitiously lift the bodice of my dress and flap it back and forth, cooling myself down as much as possible. “Violetta!” I recognize Luca’s voice: light, husky, and with an edge of humor, as if he’s perpetually amused by a joke that only he can understand. Hearing him say my name--and in Italian!--is paralyzing. If I were with a girlfriend, I’d probably burst into hysterical, juvenile giggling; as it is, I bite my tongue, hard, take a deep breath to calm myself, and after a few moments, manage to glance around as casually as I can, spot Luca standing by a high bar table, and even raise a hand in acknowledgement as I walk toward him.

The no-foreign-school-supplies rule was enforced by way of surprise inspections, heralded by the teacher suddenly yelling midlecture: “Everyone, put your hands on the top of your head!” This would send all the students into full-on freakout mode, trying in vain to hide their Japanese mechanical pencils in the gaps between the floorboards, like a drug dealer flushing his stash down the toilet. In eighth grade, my teacher picked up a plastic Tupperware-type container from a student’s bag, looked at the bottom, and shrieked, “Made in Thailand? Thailand?! If you’re going to buy non-Korean goods, why would you pick a beggarly country like Thailand?” She then hit the offending student on the head with the contraband plastic container. Even

With its glass walls, you can enjoy the view even when it’s raining. It has a huge outdoor terrace with a panoramic view across the city, but the big draw is that you are up high, directly in front of the ‘cricket cage’ balustrade of Brunelleschi’s dome. Just between you and me, the Folco Portinari–Dante connection had me sold before I even arrived. It could have had a view of the men’s toilets and I still would have been thrilled, just because I love the Alighieri-Portinari story! (See Chapter 23: A Walk With Dante.) My first time here was with the city archivist I told you about in the chapter on the Duomo, so I associate this place with cool local 30-somethings with fascinating jobs in the city and endless stories about Florence, dating back to Julius Caesar. Caffeteria della Oblate is a little tricky to find, but that means the tourist crowd can’t find it either, so walking around in circles trying to get here is worth it. And of course, there’s that view… Address: Via dell’ Oriuolo, 26

What are you up to now?" "I've got detention," he said with a pitiful expression. "Apparently it's not cool of me to hide nitter critters in the toilets and record people’s screams when their asses get bit. Especially when those people include Coach Mars.

And for all we know,” Vince added, “it doesn’t really do anything. Maybe somebody just thought it was cool to mix it in there.” Deborah looked at Vince for a long moment. “Do you have any idea how fucking lame that sounds?” she said. “Guy in Syracuse smoked some,” Deke said. “He tried to flush himself.” He looked at the three of us staring at him and shrugged. “You know, in the toilet.” “If I lived in Syracuse, I’d flush myself, too,” Deborah said. Deke held up both hands in an eloquent whatever gesture. “Ahem,” I said, in a valiant attempt to keep us on topic. “The real point here is not why they used it, but that they did use it. Considering the size of the crowd, they used a lot of it. Probably more than once. And if somebody is using it in quantities that large—” “Hey, we should find the dealer easy,” Deke said.

She lined the seat with a thick layer of toilet paper, peed for what felt like two minutes straight, and then washed her hands. Took a swig from the bottle of mouthwash stuffed into the small box on the floor. Swished the cool, tingling liquid around in her mouth as she ran downstairs. After scanning the road, Lacey raced outside. She spit out the mouthwash as she descended the lopsided steps, causing whatever had taken up residence under the porch to scamper when the dark-blue liquid hit the ground.

A group of disgruntled house appliances watched the sermon in the virtuality -- coffee makers, cooling units, a couple of toilets -- appliances, more than anyone else, needed the robots' guidance, yet they were often wilful, bitter, prone to petty arguments, both with their owners and with themselves.

The real hell of Hell is that it is forever." Sula said that. She said doing anything forever and ever was hell. Nel didn't understand it then, but now in the bathroom, trying to feel, she thought, "If I could be sure that I could stay here in this small white room with the dirty tile and water gurgling in the pipes and my head on the cool rim of this bathtub and never have to go out the door, I would be happy. If I could be certain that I never had to get up and flush the toilet, go in the kitchen, watch my children grow up and die, see my food chewed on my plate... Sula was wrong. Hell ain't things lasting forever. Hell is change.

DASH: Hey, baby. Is it too early to start talking about baby names? Because I think Wolverine would be a really cool name for a boy. DASH: Or Wayne. After Bruce Wayne. But not Bruce because I knew a guy in high school named Bruce and he was a dick. CHARLIE: Are you texting me about names for our child while reading a comic book on the toilet? DASH: Uhhh…no?

Diamond pythons in the roof, bats nesting in my cupboard, satin bowerbirds at the fruit bowl, green tree frogs in the toilet, goanna chasing me on the verandah. That green on green on green. Ferns mark soggy bits of ground, a crossing in the creek, the cool place I like to sit. When it rains the house fills with huntsmans and mole crickets.

She watches him till he disappears, feeling lighter now because the big black car has gone and a big blackness that was sitting on her has gone too. Then she wanders down the other side of the koppie, pausing here and there to look at a rock or a leaf, to her own house, or the house she thinks of as her own. By the time she comes in through the back door, a hundred and thirty-three minutes and twenty-two seconds have passed since she ran away. Four cars, including the long dark one, have departed, a single new one has arrived. The telephone has rung eighteen times, the doorbell twice, on one occasion because somebody has sent flowers that improbably turn up all the way out here. Twenty-two cups of tea, six mugs of coffee, three glasses of cool drink and six brandy-and-Cokes have been consumed. The three toilets downstairs, unused to such traffic, have between them been flushed twenty-seven times, carrying away nine point eight litres of urine, five point two litres of shit, one stomachful of regurgitated food, and five millilitres of sperm. Numbers go on and on, but what does mathematics help? In any human life there is really only one of everything.

Neil Tennant: I liked anything that had a slightly artificial construct to it. I’ve never really been that interested by authentic music. I think authenticity is a style. But I loved Bowie when he went electric with Low and ‘Heroes’, and I really loved electronic music. Although I wasn’t officially gay at this point, I had gay friends who I would occasionally go to nightclubs with, and you would hear what we would think of as gay disco music. That was heavily electronic. I really loved electronic music, like Kraftwerk’s Man-Machine, and at the same time I loved new-wave music. I liked the pop end of it, the Jam and stuff like that. Then the Human League came along, and OMD’s first album was great. Then, of course, at the same time you had Giorgio Moroder, who wasn’t, lest we forget, cool at this point. In fact, he was quite naff. There was a designer who worked at Marvel Comics who would put on ‘I Feel Love’ because he could put it on, go to the toilet and come back, and it was still playing.

I thought of the opera ‘Madama Butterfly’ that I had just been listening to and saw myself as that sailor in that opera who was born into beauty but left it to chase his American dream. I had forgotten my heart, and the home in which it beat, and now as I held a life, tightly in my arms, in my eyes, that had wounded itself and was now about to die. Neglect. The burning furnace. I realized that I was never to see her, Life, again and that throughout the years when she had been there I hath forsaken thee lost in money, in opinion in short, an exchange in which we trade the means for the end (happiness), but never realize until the end how much we have truly lost and I. I was at the end of my road, or at least this road. Regret. But now was not the time. She was still here; breathing with the wind, beating against my face that licked with the cool, cool presence. There was still what was, what is, and for but a short time what was still to be. I had but a few moments to make up for an entire life that I had lost.

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I don't know about you, but when I get nervous, I have to make lots of visits to the toilet

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Uncoolness is pretty much Judaism’s brand, which is why cool people find it so threatening—and why Jews who are willing to become cool are absolutely necessary to Hanukkah antisemitism’s success. These “converted” Jews are used to demonstrate the good intentions of the regime—which of course isn’t antisemitic but merely requires that its Jews publicly flush thousands of years of Jewish civilization down the toilet in exchange for the worthy prize of not being treated like dirt, or not being murdered.