Toilet Seat Quotes

I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you.

Don't, Ginny, we'll send you loads of owls. We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat. George! Only joking, Mum.

All that matters to me is the man in front of me right now. (Tory) I’m not a man, Soteria. (Acheron) I know. But if you think your godhood excuses you from putting the toilet seat down, think again. (Tory)

So you killed him with what now?" "I tried that Dr. Phil book at first"..."And I finished it off with the toilet seat. Just so you know, you left it up again. That drives me crazy.

Well. He's a very sensitive boy. He's really never been a terribly good mixer with other boys...' Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive as a goddamn toilet seat.

I am plenty romantic. Just this morning while he slept, I had left Carter a box of his favorite candy next to his pillow - Globs: piles of white chocolate covered, crushed potato chips and pretzels drizzled with caramel. I figured it would soften him up to the note I placed next to the box telling him if he left the toilet seat up one more time and my ass got an involuntary bath at six in the morning, I would put super glue on the head of his penis while he slept. I had even signed the note with a couple of Xs and Os. Who says romance is dead?

you must wear it like she wears disappointment on her face you must hide the surprise of tasting other men on your lips your mother is a woman and women like her cannot be contained. you find the black tube inside her beauty case, where she keeps your fathers old prison letters, you desperately want to look like her film star beauty, you hold your hand against your throat your mother was most beautiful when sprawled out on the floor half naked and bleeding. you go to the bathroom to apply the lipstick, somewhere no one can find you your teeth look brittle against the deep red slickness you smile like an infant, your mouth is a wound you look nothing like your mother you look everything like your mother. you call your ex boyfriend, sit on the toilet seat and listen to the phone ring, when he picks up you say his name slow he says i thought i told you to stop calling me you lick your lips, you taste like years of being alone.

We'll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat!

I can’t function here anymore. I mean in life: I can’t function in this life. I’m no better off than when I was in bed last night, with one difference: when I was in my own bed—or my mom’s—I could do something about it; now that I’m here I can’t do anything. I can’t ride my bike to the Brooklyn Bridge; I can’t take a whole bunch of pills and go for the good sleep; the only thing I can do is crush my head in the toilet seat, and I still don’t even know if that would work. They take away your options and all you can do is live, and it’s just like Humble said: I’m not afraid of dying; I’m afraid of living. I was afraid before, but I’m afraid even more now that I’m a public joke. The teachers are going to hear from the students. They’ll think I’m trying to make an excuse for bad work.

The tone of the scream reminded me of Hera whenever she stormed through the hallways of Olympus, yelling at me for leaving the godly toilet seat up.

Tell me something, Adron. Sometime you’ve never shared with anyone else. Not even Thia. (Livia) I’m the one who glued Zarina to the toilet seat when she was seven. (Adron)

Wow, he must get more ass than a toilet seat!

In the bathroom two water tumblers were sealed in cellophane sacks with the words: "These glasses are sterilized for your protection." Across the toilet seat a strip of paper bore the message: "This seat has been sterilized with ultraviolet light for your protection." Everyone was protecting me and it was horrible.

I don’t know if she’s completely unkillable,” he said, “but she cannot be defeated by toilet seats. I can vouch for that. She wanted me to betray you guys, and I was like, ‘Pfft, right, I’m gonna listen to a face in the potty sludge.

What do you see in him anyway?” “He doesn’t leave the toilet seat up.” I smiled bitterly

He kissed my cheek. “Don’t worry I’m far from perfect. Ask my mom. I can never remember to put the toilet seat down,” he grinned. -Caeden

They leaned out of the window for her to kiss them good-bye, and their younger sister began to cry. “Don’t, Ginny, we’ll send you loads of owls.” “We’ll send you a Hogwarts toilet seat.” “George!” “Only joking, Mum.

Finally, I found what seemed at the time to be a lid of some sort. Presuming it was a toilet seat (but not really caring one way or the other) I lifted it up, then dropped my shorts and began to piss. Ahhh...success. Then I stumbled back to bed and passed out. It wasn't until the next morning that I realized what had actually happened. I woke to the sight of Junior standing over my bed with a look of disgust on his face. "Hey, man. Did you pee in my suitcase?

Its okay Ginny. Don't be upset. We'll send you a toilet seat or something. Fred and George said to Ginny

On the way out of the bathroom, he stopped to put the toilet seat down. You’re going to break my heart, Ford Winter, she thought.

Mila, that day, in your shop almost crushed me. When you said no to me, I didn't know if I would survive it, but I knew I had to. I knew that i had to change, for me and for you. And I think I have. I'm still working on it.... it's going to be a process. But I'm willing to put in the work. Forever, if that's what it takes. So... I'm going to ask you again, babe. Stay with me. Stay with me here in my house. It's only a five minute drive to your shop when it's open. And you can use the studio for your art. I promise to try not to snore. And to put the toilet seat sown. Most of the time, anyway. Just stay with me. Please. I never want to be away from you again.

I'm sorry about these two," Mike told the waitress. "Just so you know, I'll be embarrassed with you." "It's just that we haven't seen each other since summmer camp," Becky said. "And we'd formed such a bond playing wily tricks on our camp counselors," Felix said. "Remember how you replaced Miss Pepper's shampoo with liquid Jell-O and turned her hair green?" "It was sheer genius when you stretched cling film over all the toilet seats." "Oh." The waitress turned to Mike, as if to address the only sane member of the group. "So, are ya'll ready to eat now, or are you waiting for your date to arrive?" Mike played with the menu. "Actually, she's my date." "These are my two husbands," Becky said. "We're from Utah. You know, Mormom.

she was quite promiscuous, to the point where dating her was similar to the experience of sitting on a warm toilet seat:

Thou may leave the toilet seat up. But thou shalt not leave the toilet seat down and pee on it.

Gains There is no man in the house that I have to try to make happy. There are no more arguments, or nights when I turn away from N in quiet dispair as he snores with an entitled regularity. Everything also stays cleaner; the toilet seat is perpetually down. I have the remote control to the television; no one can take that away. I can watch the Lifetime channel without derision.

I believe your friends Misters Fred and George Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic, and confiscated it.

What strikes me,” Sarah continued, “is that men are such savages—they don’t fold their clothes, they pee on the toilet seat, they barely wash—yet when it comes to their views on women they’re suddenly so concerned about how everything looks. Each barbarian becomes an aesthete about the female body, all of a sudden expecting perfection.

So...I'm going to ask you again, babe. Stay with me. Stay with me here in my house. It's only a five minute drive to your shop when it's open. And you can use this studio for your art. I promise to try not to snore. And to put the toilet seat down. Most of the time, anyway. Just stay with me. Please. I never want to be away from you again.

It occurred to me, while sitting on the cold white toilet seat pretending to pee in order to avoid Bob, that I much preferred having the power over the man and deciding when to cut the cord, over being powerless and on the receiving end of the silent fade-away.

I always leave the toilet seat up. It’s just easier to wash my hair that way.

He followed her into the bathroom and sat on the shut toilet seat while she washed her back with a brush. "I forgot to tell you," he said. "Liza sent us a wheel of Brie." "That's nice," she said, "but you know what? Brie gives me terribly loose bowels." He hitched up his genitals and crossed his legs. "That's funny," he said. "It constipates me." That was their marriage then--not the highest paving of the stair, the clatter of Italian fountains, the wind in the alien olive trees, but this: a jay-naked male and female discussing their bowels.

Gram?” I asked. “You okay?” “Damn men,” she said. “I fell in the toilet.” I busted out laughing. Tears of laughter coursed down my face. “Oh God,” I said, still laughing. Caeden was blushing. Even his ears were red. “I did tell you I can never remember to put the toilet seat down.

You’re good in bed. You get rid of unwelcome creepy crawlies. You don’t leave the toilet seat up. And, being nice and tall, you can reach all those places that I can’t reach. I reckon I got a good deal.

A series of tests conducted by Charles Gerba, a microbiologist at the University of Arizona, discovered far more fecal bacteria in the average American kitchen sink than on the average American toilet seat. According to Gerba, ‘You’d be better off eating a carrot stick that fell in your toilet than one that fell in your sink.

Why don’t you share how you hurt your leg? I’m guessing it was a football injury.” “No way,” Barnstorm scoffs. “The tackler isn’t born who can catch me. I was changing a lightbulb in the bathroom and I slipped off the toilet seat.

I'm up for a Shadow hunt." She tries to let us out, but the lock's stuck. "That's weird." "Is this like an omen?" Daisy asks. Jazz unzips her boot and takes it off so she can slam it at the lock. "It's not an omen." Slam. "Tonight." Slam. "Is going to be great." Slam. "I've got a feeling." Slam. She puts her book back on and looks at us. "Okay, we'll have to climb out of here." She stands on the toilet seat and from there to the toilet-roll holder and then heaves herself over the wall. "Impresive," I say, and then we hear her slam to the ground. "Less impressive," Daisy says. "It doesn't mean anything," Jazz calls. "Trust me. I'm a psychic.

For all his apologies, the convict Esau Davis was just a low-level toilet scrubber without the sense that God gave a goat. If she could get to a pistol or a shotgun or a hammer or a screwdriver, Caddy Colson would go all redneck on his ass and tear him a new asshole. That’s the way she was feeling, sitting there in the front seat of his shitty old truck, muffler rattling loose and wild, while he took Kleenex to his bleeding eye and talked about old times with Jamey Dixon like he thought they could still be friends after all this shit went down.

I wouldn't go against Reggie and actively encourage Zoe to move in, but I think she and I would do okay together. If nothing else she could help me in my never-ending campaign. Some people want to save the rivers or save the whales, even save the entire planet - I just want to keep the toilet seat down.

Mila, that day ,in your shop almost crushed me. When you said no to me, I didn't know if I would survive it, but I knew I had to. I knew that i had to change, for me and for you. And I think I have. I'm still working on it.... it's going to be a process. But I'm willing to put in the work. Forever, if that's what it takes. So... I'm going to ask you again, babe. Stay with me. Stay with me here in my house. It's only a five minute drive to your shop when it's open. And you can use the studio for your art. I promise to try not to snore. And to put the toilet seat sown. Most of the time, anyway. Just stay with me. Please. I never want to be away from you again.

One of the classier features of this home was the padded toilet seat. It was high-mileage puffy brown vinyl-colored foam and made that weird sigh when you sat down on it. I'm not a germaphobe or anything like that, but it is weird to think about all the ass time this seat had seen before we moved in. This is a horrible invention. What's the plan? You want to create a toilet seat so comfortable that you can fall asleep while you're taking a shit? You're going to show up late for work or end up like Elvis.

Should I come in early tomorrow?” I asked. Steven bumped shoulders with Mark. “You must’ve done something good in a past life to score this one.” “I think putting up with you in this life qualifies,” Mark said dryly. “Hey,” Steven protested , “I’m housebroken. I put the toilet seat down.” Mark shot me an exasperated look that was warm with affection for his partner. “And that’s helpful how?” Day, Sylvia (2012-05-24). Bared to You (Crossfire, Book 1) (p. 24). Penguin Publishing Group. Kindle Edition.

She’d been hunting for an indescribable thrill, a feeling she remembered from nights out with her friends, but she’d misunderstood where the feeling came from. It wasn’t about drinking and partying in some dingy club. It had been about the people. The constant laughter they shared, too high on each other to care that they were being obnoxious. Group trips to the bathroom like a small army unit, where the mission objective was helping each other squat over filthy toilets without their dresses touching the seat. Belonging.

He closes the door with a determined click, and I hear him call to a flight attendant, and I sink down onto the toilet seat, resting my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands as I listen to him through the door. "I'm sorry to bother you but my wife," he says, and then pauses. With the last word he says, my heart begins to hammer. "The one who now got sick? She's started her... cycle? And I'm wondering if you keep any, or rather if you have... something? You see this all happened a bit fast and she packed in a hurry, and before that we were in Vegas. I have no idea why she came with me but I really really don't want to screw this up. And now she needs something. Can she, uh," he stutters, finally saying simply, "borrow quelque chose?" I cover my mouth as he continues to ramble, and I would given anything in this moment to see the expression of the flight attendant on the other side of this door. "I meant use," he continues. "Not to borrow because I don't think they work that way." I hear a woman's voice ask, "Do you know if she needs tampons or pads?" Oh God. Oh God. This can't be happening. "Um..." I hear him sigh and then say, "I have no idea but I'll give you a hundred dollars to end this conversation and give me both.

I understand toilets were not yet invented when you were born, but is it really so hard to put the seat down?

I don’t know what to say about the hygiene of the male species.

He spun out enough toilet paper to vandalize a house and carefully cleaned the seat.

Despite my lack of funds, I throw promises around the way that celebrities burn money on gold-plated toilet seats and tickets to the moon.

Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive as a goddamn toilet seat.

leaving up toilet seats is for guys who have sex with their socks on.

Sensitive. That killed me. That guy Morrow was about as sensitive as a goddam toilet seat.

A drunken enemy once said that she was the sort of woman for whom the water glasses and toilet seats of motels and hotels are sealed.

Right now she must be moving as fast as she could through the woods, knowing that the only thing she had on her side was a little bit of time. Griffin felt a grudging respect. He stepped up on the toilet seat and grabbed the casement. He was just swinging his leg out when the faintest of sounds made him look toward the tub. Now that he was two feet off the ground, he could just see over the blue shower curtain with its faded green and yellow seahorses. And what he saw was Cheyenne, crouched in the tub. Hiding behind the shower curtain.

An airplane crossed the sky, and she imagined its interior-people packed in rows like eggs in a carton, the chemical smell of the toilets, pretzels in foil pouches, cans hiss-popping open, black oval of night sky embedded in the rattling walls. How strange that something so drab, so confined, so stifling with sour exhalations and the fumes of indifferent machinery might be mistaken for a star.

A smell of soap and toothpaste, of warm, wet facecloths and damp towels curled around her as she sat slumped on the toilet seat, head in hands, thinking, "No, please, God, not another day beginning.

Beanfest also holds the Great Arkansas Championship Outhouse Race in which teams from Arkansas and states as far as Louisiana and Missouri push outhouses built on wheels in a bid for the coveted gold toilet seat trophy.

TOILET SEAT TROUBLE ELIMINATOR’ ‘Your troubles are over, guys. How many times have you been in trouble for leaving the toilet seat up? Stay in the good books with this device. Simply attach it to the back of the toilet seat, and each time it’s lifted, it will gently close after three minutes. To earn an extra gold star, attach the special wiper, and it will run over the seat and clean up any spills and splashes you’ve made, before closing.

Can you please just be terrified to be living among the Weres?” he asks. “So far, Humans are worse. They do shit like burning the Amazon rainforest or leaving the toilet seat up at night. Anyway, anything you need from me?

Our toilet was in a corrugated-iron outhouse shared among the adjoining houses. Inside, there was a concrete slab with a hole in it and a plastic toilet seat on top; there had been a lid at some point, but it had broken and disappeared long ago. We couldn’t afford toilet paper, so on the wall next to the seat was a wire hanger with old newspaper on it for you to wipe. The newspaper was uncomfortable, but at least I stayed informed while I handled my business.

Horsfall was fond of practical jokes. He once wired up a toilet seat to a battery and waited for a girlfriend to use it. 'The scream that Kath gave when the magneto was turned on was most satisfying,' he recalled. He even wrote a poem to commemorate the occasion. I gave her time to start her piddle Then gave the thing a violent twiddle Before I could complete a turn She closed the circuit with her stern, And shooting off the wooden seat Emitted a most piercing shriek.

Why are boys so difficult? I mean, really. When they aren't drinking directly out of the carton or leaving the toilet seat up, they are getting all offended because you won't go out with them and threatening to rat you out to your supervisor. Hasn't it occurred to any of them that this is not the way to our hearts? And the problem is, they are just going to keep on doing it, as long as stupid girls like Kelly Prescott keep agreeing to go out with them anyway, in spite of their defects.

We can't ask our mothers. It's hard to imagine them without clothes, to think of them as having bodies at all, under their dresses. There's a great deal they don't say. Between us and them is a gulf, an abyss, that goes down and down. It's filled with wordlessness. They wrap up the garbage in several layers of newspaper and tie it with string, and even so it drips onto the freshly waxed floor. Their clotheslines are strung with underpants, nighties, socks, a display of soiled intimacy, which they have washed and rinsed, plunging their hands into the gray curdled water. They know about toilet brushes, about toilet seats, about germs. The world is dirty, no matter how much they clean, and we know they will not welcome our grubby little questions. So instead a long whisper runs among us, from child to child, gathering horror.

This is how it should have been that first night down on the sand," he whispered. "This is our beginning Ivy. I want to make it official. I want there to be no doubt, 'cause I'm gonna do stupid shit all the time." I giggled, and his white teeth flashed. "I'm gonna leave the toilet seat up. I'm gonna be overprotective, probably bossy, and my temper is always gonna run hot." "I don't care," I told him, sliding my hands up to rest on his chest. "Tell me you'll be my girl, and I swear I'll love you with everything I got." "I'm always gonna be stubborn. I'm not gonna take your shit. My makeup will be all over the bathroom, and I still don't have a major. Oh, and I want to keep Prada. You have to like her, too." "I already told Rim to get your adoption paperwork ready for that rat." Then in lower tones, he said, "She's grown on me." I smiled. He totally loved Prada. "So what's my answer?" He tightened his arms around my waist. I pretended to think it over. A girl should never sound too eager-even if she was practically peeing herself with glee. "Blondie," Braeden growled. "I'm already yours, B. I have been for a long time.

Why go to a store when you could go to a museum?” she might ask. “Um, because the museum doesn’t sell shit?” My sisters and I refuse to feel bad about shopping. And why should we? Obviously we have some hole we’re trying to fill, but doesn’t everyone? And isn’t filling it with berets the size of toilet-seat covers, if not more practical, then at least healthier than filling it with frosting or heroin or unsafe sex with strangers?

The problem of an ideal kitchen grows more complex as I ponder on it. There are many small things I am sure about: no shelf-papers; no sharp edges or protruding hooks or wires; no ruffled curtains; and no cheap-coloured stove, mauve or green or opalescent like a modern toilet seat. Instead of these things I would have smooth shelves of some material like ebony or structural glass, shelves open or protected by sliding transparent doors. I would have curved and rounded edges, even to the floor, for the sake of cleanliness, and because I hate the decayed colours of a bruise. Instead of curtains I would have Venetian blinds, of four different colours for the seasons of the year. They would be, somehow, on the outside of the glass. And the stove would be black, with copper and earthenware utensils to put on it. It would be a wood stove, or perhaps (of this I am doubtful, unless I am the charwoman and janitor as well as the cook) electrical with place for a charcoal grill.

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.

true love transcends beyond sex.

I hide in the bathroom, in the stall farthest from the door and become a tableau of a girl crouched stupidly on a toilet seat, so she won't be seen. Over the hour, girls come in and out, in and out. I can't stand every boring, worthless piece of conversation I overhear because they make me wish I could be a part of them, be some nobody girl with nothing to say.

When the ship suddenly pitched more steeply, the bookworm lost his grip. He came skipping over the toilet seats—his ass made a slapping sound—until he collided with my father at the opposite end of the row of toilets. “Sorry—I just had to keep reading!” he said. Then the ship rolled in the other direction, and the soldier sallied forth, skipping over the seats again. When he’d slid all the way to the last toilet, he either lost control of the book or he let it go, gripping the toilet seat with both hands. The book floated away in the seawater. “What were you reading?” the code-boy called. “Madame Bovary!” the soldier shouted in the storm. “I can tell you what happens,” the sergeant said. “Please don’t!” the bookworm answered. “I want to read it for myself!

Save for the fit of bizarre laughter at the end, the man seems so calm, sensible, rational. Duffy wishes he met more like him. A bit paranoid about this terrorism business, but frankly, he might be right. You never know who is around the bend to blow you up, destroy your symbols, set your embassy on fire, shit on your toilet seat, or send anthrax swimming into the subway air and into everyone's lungs.

Things I Used to Get Hit For: Talking back. Being smart. Acting stupid. Not listening. Not answering the first time. Not doing what I’m told. Not doing it the second time I’m told. Running, jumping, yelling, laughing, falling down, skipping stairs, lying in the snow, rolling in the grass, playing in the dirt, walking in mud, not wiping my feet, not taking my shoes off. Sliding down the banister, acting like a wild Indian in the hallway. Making a mess and leaving it. Pissing my pants, just a little. Peeing the bed, hardly at all. Sleeping with a butter knife under my pillow. Shitting the bed because I was sick and it just ran out of me, but still my fault because I’m old enough to know better. Saying shit instead of crap or poop or number two. Not knowing better. Knowing something and doing it wrong anyway. Lying. Not confessing the truth even when I don’t know it. Telling white lies, even little ones, because fibbing isn’t fooling and not the least bit funny. Laughing at anything that’s not funny, especially cripples and retards. Covering up my white lies with more lies, black lies. Not coming the exact second I’m called. Getting out of bed too early, sometimes before the birds, and turning on the TV, which is one reason the picture tube died. Wearing out the cheap plastic hole on the channel selector by turning it so fast it sounds like a machine gun. Playing flip-and-catch with the TV’s volume button then losing it down the hole next to the radiator pipe. Vomiting. Gagging like I’m going to vomit. Saying puke instead of vomit. Throwing up anyplace but in the toilet or in a designated throw-up bucket. Using scissors on my hair. Cutting Kelly’s doll’s hair really short. Pinching Kelly. Punching Kelly even though she kicked me first. Tickling her too hard. Taking food without asking. Eating sugar from the sugar bowl. Not sharing. Not remembering to say please and thank you. Mumbling like an idiot. Using the emergency flashlight to read a comic book in bed because batteries don’t grow on trees. Splashing in puddles, even the puddles I don’t see until it’s too late. Giving my mother’s good rhinestone earrings to the teacher for Valentine’s Day. Splashing in the bathtub and getting the floor wet. Using the good towels. Leaving the good towels on the floor, though sometimes they fall all by themselves. Eating crackers in bed. Staining my shirt, tearing the knee in my pants, ruining my good clothes. Not changing into old clothes that don’t fit the minute I get home. Wasting food. Not eating everything on my plate. Hiding lumpy mashed potatoes and butternut squash and rubbery string beans or any food I don’t like under the vinyl seat cushions Mom bought for the wooden kitchen chairs. Leaving the butter dish out in summer and ruining the tablecloth. Making bubbles in my milk. Using a straw like a pee shooter. Throwing tooth picks at my sister. Wasting toothpicks and glue making junky little things that no one wants. School papers. Notes from the teacher. Report cards. Whispering in church. Sleeping in church. Notes from the assistant principal. Being late for anything. Walking out of Woolworth’s eating a candy bar I didn’t pay for. Riding my bike in the street. Leaving my bike out in the rain. Getting my bike stolen while visiting Grandpa Rudy at the hospital because I didn’t put a lock on it. Not washing my feet. Spitting. Getting a nosebleed in church. Embarrassing my mother in any way, anywhere, anytime, especially in public. Being a jerk. Acting shy. Being impolite. Forgetting what good manners are for. Being alive in all the wrong places with all the wrong people at all the wrong times.

I will care for and protect you, nurture you, and support you, and tell you your butt is perfect in every dress and adore everything about you. I promise to love you tirelessly through perfect times and the merely fabulous times. I promise to leave you alone one week every month, for my sanity and yours. I promise to try to always put the toilet seat down. I promise to try to remember to put my dirty clothes in the hamper and replace the toilet paper when the roll is empty. I promise to use plenty of lube before trying to poke things in your bellybutton, no promise about your ears, though. In the presence of our beloved family and friends, I offer you my solemn vow to be your godlike partner and lover. In good times and bad and in joy as well as sorrow, I give you my heart, my love, my soul. I love you, now and forever.” Conly

Dealing with another human being on an intimate level is an exercise that is inherently fraught with difficulties. All human beings have good and bad traits/habits--no one is perfect. Even the most wonderful, "perfect for you" guy is going to do things that annoy you to no end, like leaving the toilet seat up, farting in bed, or conveniently forgetting how to put a new roll of toilet paper on the holder after using the last of it. That's life, people.

he bought a glass container of intoxicating liquid. He sat all the way in back in the Drunk Seat, the one by the toilet. Experience had taught him that if you intended to spend a bus trip getting smashed, that was the seat to take.

The railway station provided them all that they needed: flatulence-generating food, tea, water, paan, shelter, electricity, social intercourse, seating, mucky toilets—and drugs, coolies, women and children for sale at most reasonable prices. What more could a man ask for?

These days the couple coexisted uneasily in an edgy state where both knew a separation was inevitable and imminent but neither was brave enough to say so. They were in the almost-terminal stage where trivial things the partner does are keenly noticed and continuously resented; how they wipe the kitchen counters after a meal, the messy state of the bathroom after their shower, the toilet seat up, the toilet seat down. Things routinely ignored before, much less cared about, now glimmered like they were Day-Glo purple, or stunk like milk gone bad.

DOCTOR AIN WAS recognized on the Omaha-Chicago flight. A biologist colleague from Pasadena came out of the toilet and saw Ain in an aisle seat. Five years before, this man had been jealous of Ain's huge grants. Now he nodded coldly and was surprised at the intensity of Ain's response. He almost turned back to speak, but he felt too tired; like nearly everyone, he was fighting the flu. The stewardess handing out coats after they landed remembered Ain too: A tall thin nondescript man with rusty hair. He held up the line staring at her; since he already had his raincoat with him she decided it was some kooky kind of pass and waved him on. She saw Ain shamble off into the airport smog, apparently alone. Despite the big Civil Defense signs, O'Hare was late getting underground. No one noticed the woman. - 'The Last Flight of Doctor Ain

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.

We wonder why we're unable to attract to public life the calibre of people we'd like to see. Well, we pry into their private lives, put their every move under a microscope, and subject them and their loved ones to the most invasive and penetrating scrutiny imaginable. Then, when we find the slightest little thing that even remotely resembles an infraction no more serious than leaving the toilet seat up, we eat them. We get the government we deserve. Yes, we want honesty, transparency, and decency in our politicians. To attract such qualities, we need understanding, sensitivity, and sometimes forgiveness in our voters.

I picked up the butter-soft suede shirt and slacks and held them toward Martucci, but he bent over, grabbing at his stomach, and made it into the dark little cubicle in time to vomit into the toilet. He ran the small trickle of water in the sink over his hands, dabbed water on his face, then blotted himself on the rough paper towels. Within the next five minutes, he was dressed and deposited in the rear seat of my car between Haley and Finn. Vito, who had scared the living hell out of the hustler before giving him a kick in the ass out the hotel's side door, sat next to me as I drove. Vito was breathing heavily; it was the only sound in the car.

Hugh concentrated upon different objects in the camión; the driver’s small mirror with the legend running round it—Cooperación de la Cruz Roja, the three picture postcards of the Virgin Mary pinned beside it, the two slim vases of marguerites over the dashboard, the gangrened fire extinguisher, the dungaree jacket and whiskbroom under the seat where the pelado was sitting—he watched him as they hit another bad stretch of road. Swaying from side to side with his eyes shut, the man was trying to tuck in his shirt. Now he was methodically buttoning his coat on the wrong buttons. But it struck Hugh all this was merely preparatory, a sort of grotesque toilet.

But of course it was a miracle, of course it was blindly, baldly phenomenal that he and Marilyn had not only found each other—out of all the other people on the earth, in the Chicagoland area, in the Behavioral Sciences Building that day so many years ago—but also that they were still here, together, that they hadn’t divorced or murdered each other or, worse, fallen into stagnant suburban silence, dead-eyed dinners and separate beds and hostile jokes about the toilet seat. That they still made each other laugh. That they made love, in their sixties, more often than they had in their thirties. That the sight of her at the end of the day still brought him so much joy.

Our quick tour through the many dimensions of cognitive and emotional dysfunction makes it plain why the practice of psychiatry has changed so profoundly over the past thirty years. The familiar caricature of the bearded and monocled Freudian analyst probing his reclining patient for memories of toilet training gone awry and parentally directed lust is now an anachronism, as is the professional practice of that mostly empty and confabulatory art. How such an elaborate theory could have become so widely accepted—on the basis of no systematic evidence or critical experiments, and in the face of chronic failures of therapeutic intervention in all of the major classes of mental illness (schizophrenia, mania and depression)—is something that sociologists of science and popular culture have yet to fully explain.

the one station that played music great music left in the whole loud cheap pounding stupidity of radio you find it and make it cheap and stupid like all the rest of you could, if there was one flower out here in this mud and weeds and broken toilet seats you’d find it and step on it, the minute you... - okay wait look is it my fault if... - The minute you get your hands on something the power to keep something like that going you couldn’t do it you couldn’t even leave it alone for a few people still looking for something beautiful, people who’d rather hear a symphony than eat who can still, who hear a magnificent soprano voice singing ach nein when you hear this here lady singing up mine you can’t get up to their level so you drag them down to yours if there’s any way to ruin something, to degrade it to cheapen it...

Honouring the youth of their town they provided a décor that a £20-a-Martini fleecing parlour could not have amortized. They had bought eighty low Alvar Aalto stools for the alcove and coctail bar seating. Also, twenty tall numbers in the same bent bleach wood classic style. Extremely expensive and brought in from Finland at equally great expense. And in the first twelve months, ninety percent had disappeared. Compared to the catastrophic damage done every other week to one of the toilets just off the main dance floor --the level of masonry demolition going deep into the floor implied the use of a full-sized pneumatic drill-- the loss of a bunch of stools was incidental. The fact that thirty-two then turned up in New Order's rehearsal room was therefore coincidental. If you couldn't join in the public in stealing from your own club, what was the point of opening it?

Whatever the final cost of HS2, all those tens of billions could clearly buy lots of things more generally useful to society than a quicker ride to Birmingham. Then there is all the destruction of the countryside. A high-speed rail line offers nothing in the way of charm. It is a motorway for trains. It would create a permanent very noisy, hyper-visible scar across a great deal of classic British countryside, and disrupt and make miserable the lives of hundreds of thousands of people throughout its years of construction. If the outcome were something truly marvellous, then perhaps that would be a justifiable price to pay, but a fast train to Birmingham is never going to be marvellous. The best it can ever be is a fast train to Birmingham. Remarkably, the new line doesn’t hook up to most of the places people might reasonably want to go to. Passengers from the north who need to get to Heathrow will have to change trains at Old Oak Common, with all their luggage, and travel the last twelve miles on another service. Getting to Gatwick will be even harder. If they want to catch a train to Europe, they will have to get off at Euston station and make their way half a mile along the Euston Road to St Pancras. It has actually been suggested that travelators could be installed for that journey. Can you imagine travelling half a mile on travelators? Somebody find me the person who came up with that notion. I’ll get the horsewhip. Now here’s my idea. Why not keep the journey times the same but make the trains so comfortable and relaxing that people won’t want the trip to end? Instead, they could pass the time staring out the window at all the gleaming hospitals, schools, playing fields and gorgeously maintained countryside that the billions of saved pounds had paid for. Alternatively, you could just put a steam locomotive in front of the train, make all the seats inside wooden and have it run entirely by volunteers. People would come from all over the country to ride on it. In either case, if any money was left over, perhaps a little of it could be used to fit trains with toilets that don’t flush directly on to the tracks, so that when I sit on a platform at a place like Cambridge or Oxford glumly eating a WH Smith sandwich I don’t have to watch blackbirds fighting over tattered fragments of human waste and toilet paper. It is, let’s face it, hard enough to eat a WH Smith sandwich as it is.

Of course we rearmed,” Göring, seated once more next to the psychiatrist on his cot, said. “We rearmed Germany until we bristled. I am only sorry we did not rearm more. Of course, I considered treaties as so much toilet paper. Of course, I wanted to make Germany great. If it could be done peacefully, well and good. If not, that’s just as good. My plans against Britain were bigger than they ascribe to me even now. When they told me I was playing with war by building up the Luftwaffe, I replied I certainly was not running a finishing school.

You don’t know. You’ve never been married and divorced. Everything is insurmountable when you’re married. The fact that you want to talk at the breakfast table and he insists on reading his paper is insurmountable. Leaving the seat up on the toilet is insurmountable. Getting peanut butter in the jelly jar is insurmountable. People don’t change just because they’re married. All those little habits and personality quirks that you previously thought were trivial become the bane of your existence. And the major problems, like different outlooks on life, are crushing.

With a sudden strike of inspiration, she blurted, “Why don’t you write a novel? I know you have enough life experiences to fill a whole room with books, and with you as the main character.” She placed the coffee cup back into Havok’s hands before reaching down to grab the bottom of her shirt, pulling it over her head, and balling it up in her hands. Standing naked, she brought the shirt to her nose and closed her eyes. “I can be one of your characters,” she purred, her eyes still closed. “A sexually frustrated homemaker whom you rescue from a boring marriage and ravage anytime you wish.” “I couldn’t tell you the difference between a split infinitive and a sentence fragment. Besides, the protagonists in most novels are supposed to be some sort of good-looking and chivalrous knights in shining armor who, at no time, sleeps with another man’s wife, always knows how to work a toilet seat, cooks the perfect eggs, and never burns the toast.” Havok shrugged his shoulders. “I have a habit of burning toast.” With the shirt still against her nose, June opened her eyes. “Somehow, I think that you make it a habit of burning your toast.

really a rock dressed in clothes. All the dolls were seated around a doll-size blanket. Even the mushy baby dolls that couldn’t sit by themselves had been propped up with blocks. In the middle of the blanket lay a Barbie doll, wrapped up in toilet paper. All the other dolls were watching her. “Neat,” said Bean. “A mummy.” “Yeah,” said Ivy. “I’m going to build a pyramid to bury her in. As soon as I figure out how.” “I know how,” said Bean. “Nancy made one out of sugar cubes last year. I can’t believe your parents let you draw lines on your floor.” “It’s only chalk,” said Ivy.

You okay to make it back to the bed?” I nodded. “It’s not my fault. Leon—Apollo—whoever he is—didn’t fix me right. Godly powers my—” “I did fix you, but you were dead. Give me some credit,” Apollo said. I jumped, smacking my hand on my chest. Apollo sat on the edge of the toilet seat, one leg crossed over the other. Beside me, Aiden bowed stiffly. “My master.” “Oh, my gods,” I said. “Seriously. Are you trying to kill me again by giving me a heart attack?” Apollo tipped his head at Aiden. “I’ve already told you. You don’t need to do the ‘master’ and bowing business with me.” Little sparks of electricity rimmed those all-white eyes. “Why are you out of bed? Doesn’t getting stabbed warrant some downtime?” He smiled at Aiden, who was now standing. “She really is hard to take care of, isn’t she?” Aiden looked a little pale. “Yeah…” “I… I felt gross.” Apollo disappeared from the bathroom and popped up behind Aiden. Marcus took a step back, his eyes wide. He bowed too, and I really thought for a moment that Marcus was going to drop to his knees. “Good gods,” Aiden said under his breath as he led me out of the bathroom. I stared at the hulking god in the corner of the room as I climbed back into bed. “Did anyone know about this?

And I also have the impression—a bit inconsistent, Like a dream based on jumbled realities— That I left myself on a seat in the streetcar, To be found by whoever was going to sit down there next. And I also have the impression—a bit hazy, Like a dream one tries to remember on waking up to the dim light of dawn— That there’s something better in me than myself. Yes, I also have the impression—a bit painful, As of waking up without dreams to a day full of creditors— That I bungled everything, like tripping on a doormat, That I got everything wrong, like a suitcase without toilet articles, That I replaced myself with something at some point in my life.

There's a million dark little corners in Baytowne for you two to snuggle-" "Ohmysweetgoodness, Chloe, stop!" I giggle and shiver at the same time and accidentally imagine walking around The Village in Baytowne Wharf with Galen. The Village is exactly that-a sleepy little village of tourist shops in the middle of a golf-course resort. During the daytime anyway. At night though...that's when the dance club wakes up and opens its doors to all the sunburned partiers roaming the cobblestoned walkways with their daiquiris. Galen would look great under the twinling lights, even with a shirt on... Chloe smirks. "Uh-huh. Already thought of that, huh?" "No!" "Uh-huh. Then why are your cheeks as red as hot sauce?" "Nuh-uh!" I laugh. She does, too. "You want me to go ask him to meet us, then?" I nod. "How old do you think he is?" She shrugs. "Not creepy-old. Old enough for me to be jailboat, though. Lucky for him, you just turned eighteen...What the...did you just kick me?" She peers into the water, wswipes her hand over the surface as if clearing away something to see better. "Something just bumped me.” She cups her hands over her eyes and squints, leaving down so close that one good wave could slap her chin. The concentration on her face almost convinces me. Almost. But I grew up with Chloe-we’ve been next-door neighbors since the third grade. I’ve grown used to fake rubber snakes on my front porch, salt in the sugar dish, and Saran wrap spread across the toilet seat-well, actually, Mom fell prey to that one. The point is Chloe loves pranks almost as much as she loves running. And this is definitely a prank. “Yep, I kicked you,” I tell her, rolling my eyes. “But…but you can’t reach me, Emma. My legs are longer than yours, and I can’t reach you…There it is again! You didn’t feel that?” I didn’t feel it, but I did see her leg twitch. I wonder how long she’s been planning this. Since we got here? Since we boarded the plane in Jersey? Sine we turned twelve?

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.

Is giving me useless cutlery really necessary?” I said, stabbing my toast with the knife instead of slicing it. “The sovereign is concerned that you will try to end your life before the appropriate time,” Eijeh said. The appropriate time. I wondered if Eijeh had chosen my manner of death, then. The oracle, plucking the ideal future from an array of options. “End my life with this thing? My fingernails are sharper.” I brought the knife down, point first, on the mattress. I slammed it so hard the bed frame shuddered, and let go. The knife fell over, not even sharp enough to penetrate fabric. I winced, not even sure what part of my body hurt. “I suppose he thinks you’re creative enough to find a way,” Eijeh said softly. I stuffed the last bite of toast into my mouth and sat back against the wall, my arms folded. We were in one of the polished, glossy cells in the belly of the amphitheater, beneath the stadium seats that were already filling with people hungry to watch me die. I had won the last challenge, but I was running out of strength. This morning walking to the toilet had been a feat. “How sweet,” I said, spreading my arms wide to display my bruises. “See how my brother loves me?” “You’re making jokes,” Ryzek said from just outside the cell. I could hear him, muffled, through the glass wall that separated us. “You must be getting desperate.

The idea of personal space, which seems so natural to us now, was a revelation. People couldn’t get enough of it. Soon it wasn’t merely sufficient to live apart from one’s inferiors, it was necessary to have time apart from one’s equals, too. As houses sprouted wings and spread, and domestic arrangements grew more complex, words were created or adapted to describe all the new room types: study, bedchamber, privy chamber, closet, oratory (for a place of prayer), parlour, withdrawing chamber and library (in a domestic as opposed to institutional sense) all date from the fourteenth century or a little earlier. Others followed soon after: gallery, long gallery, presence chamber, tiring (for attiring) chamber, salon or saloon, apartment, lodgings and suite. ‘How widely different is all this from the ancient custom of the whole household living by day and night in the great hall!’ wrote Gotch in a moment of rare exuberance. One new type not mentioned by Gotch was boudoir, literally ‘a room to sulk in’, which from its earliest days was associated with sexual intrigue. Even with the growth of comparative privacy, life remained much more communal and exposed than today. Toilets often had multiple seats, for ease of conversation, and paintings regularly showed couples in bed or a bath in an attitude of casual friskiness while attendants waited on them and their friends sat amiably nearby, playing cards or conversing but comfortably within sight and earshot.

I was sleeping with my head on the wooden arm of a seat as six attendants of the theater converged with their night’s total of swept-up rubbish and created a huge dusty pile that reached to my nose as I snored head down – till they almost swept me away too. This was reported to me by Dean, who was watching from ten seats behind. All the cigarette butts, the bottles, the matchbooks, the come and the gone were swept up in this pile. Had they taken me with it, Dean would never have seen me again. He would have had to roam the entire United States and look in every garbage pail from coast to coast before he found me embryonically convoluted among the rubbishes of my life, his life, and the life of everybody concerned and not concerned. What would I have said to him from my rubbish womb? ‘Don’t bother me, man, I’m happy where I am. You lost me one night in Detroit in August nineteen forty-nine. What right have you to come and disturb my reverie in this pukish can?’ In 1942 I was the star in one of the filthiest dramas of all time. I was a seaman, and went to the Imperial Café on Scollay Square in Boston to drink; I drank sixty glasses of beer and retired to the toilet, where I wrapped myself around the toilet bowl and went to sleep. During the night at least a hundred seamen and assorted civilians came in and cast their sentient debouchments on me till I was unrecognizably caked. What difference does it make after all? – anonymity in the world of men is better than fame in heaven, for what’s heaven? what’s earth? All in the mind.

Nope- it was not! Ava and her girls that day went, and they cut a class at some point in the day and broke into my baby. Then Ava- ‘Rubbed one out!’ that means that she masturbated, and squirted her lady- juices all over the inside of my car. Yes- and I mean it went all over. It was on my seat on the dash, on the floor, and Ava smeared what creaminess that was on her two fingers on the windows, and driver’s side vent. As her clan, sisters pissed all over the carpet on the floor, and took their dumps on the seat, and left their thongs behind. Alison, she wrote a note on her undies saying- ‘Now you have some pairs to wear!’ It was so nasty! Plus- the outside was covered and wrapped with toilet paper as well as littered with Ava and her sisters used feminine products. What is wrong with these girls? What did I do to deserve this one? Likewise, the other kids thought it was the most humorous thing, which they ever witnessed at the end of the school day. When I discovered it- You know, I was utterly sick to my stomach. I think I screamed so loudly it echoed throughout the land, and started to cry and ran while being pushed around bouncing around off their bodies, I cannot remember- I was so upset, and then the kids were all around me kicking, and pushing me from one place to another. I was just like a hacky sack for them, until I passed out, and dropped to the hard ground. That gave them time for them to spit on me, and dump things like glue in my hair or whatever that shit was. Then what gets me is that she signed her name- Ava on the dashboard with a black permanent sharpie marker, and It reads, ‘Suck on this- Nevaeh- lick, what I gave you all up!’ and she drew a heart, with a line through it also. She wanted me to know because there was not a thing I could do about it. Depressed- to say that her juicy sprays were more yellowish, and a thick sticky white, then clear on my blue and white cloth seats. Yet, Hope had the car towed and cleaned for me inside and out, she could not believe what kids do these days. Therefore, that was the first time that I drove my car to school and the last. That whole thing cost me a lot. I guess it is back to the bus. That is what everyone wants is it not. This completely sucked; I have a car that I cannot drive anywhere other than at home or have locked up in the barn- with the other rust bucket car.

Dr. Frank Daschner once infuriated his colleagues by declaring: "You can sit on any toilet seat without the least risk, but don't, whatever you do, shake hands with your doctor

I always lift both lids of the toilet seat before I pee. Then I sit down while tinkling. If you think that’s crazy, then you haven’t seen a Florida gubernatorial debate.

In my dream, the passenger seat of my car was a toilet. I guess I was on my way to pick up a politician.