I think bathrooms should go to me instead of the other way around.

   Going to the bathroom is always an inconvenience, even in your own home.

   A chicken in every pot is a nice humanitarian goal, but a WC in every room, with a one-way picture window, soundproofed, and with a speaker so you can see and hear what’s going on around you: that would be living.

   Maybe you’ve seen those new urban sidewalk loo’s, with one-way glass half way round so the occupant can watch the world passing by while lunch is passing through.

   It’s like a sidewalk café for closet exhibitionist voyeurs. 

   I think it would be good if the glass would randomly switch direction from time to time, so the pedestrians could see in.

   I’ve never used a bathroom in a supermarket.  I don’t think anyone should, including the help.

   I have a stereo system with good speakers in my bathroom, but not a television.

   Most current TV programming seems like it was created in a toilet, so watching in the bathroom seems to me like bringing coals to Newcastle.

   Why is it that you can’t have a bowel movement without having something to read?

   Can you imagine a dog pulling out a copy of The Weekly Standard every time he squatted to take care of business?  Using it as toilet paper would make sense, but I digress.

   Lyndon Johnson was famous for keeping the bathroom door open and discussing policy with his staff while he was on the john. They say he did it purposely to make his more squeamish subordinates uncomfortable, but I think he just couldn’t find good magazines in the Oval Office.

   Now there’s something to think about: The Oval Office Crapper. 

   I wonder if the Secret Service has a special name for it, like “Potus Thronus One.”

   There are times when you need to make a beeline for the toilet, and there are times when it’s more a matter of consideration.  “Now?  Or should I get the mail first?” 

   I guess you could do both at the same time.

   What part of the brain makes those decisions?

   I’m always leery of sitting on a toilet seat at someone else’s house.

   If someone like me was the last person to use it, I don’t think I’d want to be next.

   And if there are young children in the house, sitting on the toilet is like making an appointment to get an e-coli infection or worse.

   Touching a faucet handle in someone else’s bathroom doesn’t thrill me, and in a public bathroom it’s just plain scary.

   The last person to touch it may have just finished washing up, but first he had to turn it on post-toilet, when his hands were carrying about a billion bacteria. 

   Studies show that 60% of people walk out of the loo with their hands untouched by anything approaching fresh water, let alone soap. 

   Maybe we should bow, like the Japanese, instead of shaking hands as a greeting.

   I don’t know anyone who washes the faucet handles after he washes his hands, and that’s not a comforting thought.

   In surgical washrooms, they have foot pedals so no one ever touches a faucet handle.

   You’d think it would become standard practice in all bathrooms, but that would require the contracting industry to acquire basic judgment, and we’re talking about people who think “keeping an appointment” means “I think I’ll stay home today and drink beer.”

   I don’t think I ever saw my mother actually go to the bathroom.  

   I keep thinking “immaculate evacuation” but I don’t think the Vatican would approve.

   I don’t really expect that going to the bathroom will ever be the convenience I want it to be, or that there will ever be a mobile robot bathroom that magically appears when you need it.

   But on the whole, as it were, it’s probably best not to complain.

   Going to the bathroom may not be the thrill I’d like it to be, but it sure beats the alternative.


Dear Major Ashpole,

   I don’t understand that thing about bringing coal into the bathroom just because there’s a television there.

   And I’ve never heard of a bathroom referred to as “Newcastle” before.  Is that some kind of ethnic tag? 

   Also: I think most television programming is created in offices, just like movies and bad recipes for salsa, not in bathrooms, so your entire premise seems to be in the toilet, if you’ll pardon the pun, or even if you won’t.

   I have a television in my bathroom and the temperature stays warm in winter without using any kind of special heater, let alone coal (and cool in summer, too, as long as the air conditioning is on).

   Maybe you should put a TV in your bathroom and see how it works out before making a lot of confusing statements that probably aren’t true anyway. 

   You could end up misleading the entire country if you’re not careful.

   Also, just so you know, I don’t think dogs can read.

George W. Bush

Still Trying To Figure Out What To Do These Days

Dear Major Ashpole,

   You don’t seem to be getting the message.

   The ideal should not be “a chicken in every pot,” it should be “no chickens in any pots.”

   And unless you want to find chicken blood all over one of your beloved boxes of Mallomars the next time you go to the cupboard, I suggest you change your tune, pronto.

   Also, just so you know: I don’t think dogs can read.

Ernest Khilling

Director of Threats and Civil Rights Violations

People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals

Washington, DC

Dear Major Ashpole,

   You’re silly.

   How could a bathroom ever come to you?

   Bathrooms aren’t even alive!

  Also, just so you know: I don’t think dogs can read.

Sarah Palin

America’s Favorite Former Half Term Governor

Dear Major Ashpole,

   You don’t seem to be getting the message.

   The Vatican isn’t looking for Catholic bashers like you to comment on immaculate conception, or anything else for that matter.

   The only criticism the Vatican accepts is: none.

   Don’t make me tell you again.

  Also, just so you know: I don’t think dogs can read.

Bill Donohue, President

Catholic League for Religious and Civil Rights

Dear Major Ashpole,

   You refer to supermarket employees as “the help.”

   I work at a supermarket, and I am not “the help.”

   Well, let me rephrase that: I am employed at a supermarket. 

   No one really works at supermarkets, except for the meat cutters, deli clerks and cashiers, and I don’t think you’ve ever seen any of them exactly on the brink of exhaustion.

   Getting back to my original point: I am not a servant, I am a worker (as it were).

   Also, just so you know: I don’t think dogs can read.

Chuck Shelvy

Mt. Eazybuck, Colorado


Dear Major Ashpole,

   Your characterization of building contractors as irresponsible loafers is completely unwarranted.

   I intend to finish this letter and send it to you tomorrow, but I just got a call from a friend who has an opening in a foursome with a ten a.m. tee time, so I have to go now, as I’m sure you can understand.

   Also, I’ve never seen a dog read, but I like to read on the job while petting a dog.  It keeps me from getting stressed out when customers complain about how things never seem to get done on time.

Daley Holliday, Director

U.S. Association of Independent Building Contractors

19th Hole, Kentucky

Dear Major Ashpole,

   I imagine you’re a tree-hugging environmentalist, so it might interest you to know that The Weekly Standard is produced with the cheapest ink on the planet, which is full of harmful chemicals, and the paper is treated with enough harsh bleaches and acids to turn all of America white (we should be so lucky).

   So, Mr. Wisenheimer, using our magazine as toilet paper could damage your skin, to say the least.

   That’s right: we conservatives think of everything!

   Also, just so you know: Dogs don’t use toilet paper, although many of our readers hire persons to attend to their dogs’ hygienic needs, as one might expect.

William Kristol

Editor, The Weekly Standard

Still Making A Nice Living While Being Demonstrably Wrong About Pretty Much Everything Pretty Much All The Time, DC

P.S. Have you ever noticed that no matter how many times I’m wrong, the mainstream media still treats me as if I’m some kind of a great thinker?  On second thought, let’s just keep that our little secret.


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