The sanitary refuge of a bathroom stall is all that is left between you and this hellish landscape, and even there, you’re never truly safe.
I’m going to level with you, friendo; I have massive, heaving trust issues. I hardly ever feel safe wherever my sullen ass finds itself (there was an incident with a crab). There is, however, one place on this earth where I feel almost completely safe, secure and alright with my universe; the toilet.
Think about it here for a second or four; you’re in Egypt, friendo, there’s not much in the way of privacy here. Anywhere out there is suspect to invasion by all sorts of foreign (and icky) entities, anywhere but the privacy of a bathroom; seated on your temporary porcelain throne, surveying the land of tiles, microorganisms and regret before you, the benevolent Duke of Shitsville. For a time, everything was well in Shitsville, up until you gingerly activate your royal bidet, only then did you know that you were never safe.
So yeah, you (vaguely) get the point. Anyway, here’s five types of dickass shatafas that you’ve definitely come across in your sad, sad existence. Some rend rectums, others cause first degree burns, but overall, they’re nuisances that need only the highest calibre of plumbing.
I’m absolutely sure there’s a rational reason why any of these phenomena happen, but this one? This is just hell trying to show you it exists.
So you’ve finished dropping your kids off at the pool and you’re ready to go back to sorting out absolute fuck-all, so you turn to your trusty shatafa to help you get on your way. Instead of room-temperature water, however, you’re greeted with the seething anger of a mildly disgruntled ancient spirit. Yes, motherfuckers sometimes shoot out scalding hot water at one of your most vulnerable areas (nobody deserves this), and it happens when you least expect it too. Some might argue it depends on the season, whether or not you used the shower or some other benign human reasoning, but I’m going to stick with my hypothesis; Pharaohs trying to get back at us for carving our names on obelisks.
You now have a partially blanched backend, not the end of days, right? It can always be worse.
Again, the kids need to go do their morning exercise in the pool, and you know it’s in your best interests to heed their call (unless you’re that masochistic), you decide to browse your Facebook for any interesting developments on that recent wave of people going to the hospital for first-degree rectal burns, to no decent conclusion. You (cautiously) motion towards the shatafa and hope for the best…all good, noth-GUESS AGAIN FUCKO IT CAN ALWAYS BE WORSE.
What you’ve just experienced is the overzealous and unhinged power of a shatafa so dedicated to its purpose, it has zero regard for your physical (and mental) safety. This one enjoys long stays in the bathroom, Oscar Wilde and pretending to be Blastoise from Pokémon; shooting thousand pascal jets of hydro-go-fuck-yourself so far up there, your grandkids will never need to go to the bathroom again.
The Song of My People
Burnt, perforated, almost bereft of hope, you are close to being only a shell of your former self. What more must you endure to have the privilege of a clean behind? What have you done in a past life to deserve this kind of fuckery? Surely the worst is over.
After failing miserably to rely on toilet paper (like those foreign demons), you muster up enough courage to meet your former friend once more (shatafas are concepts, not things), and once again, the children need to practice their backstroke. Apparently there’s a wave of folks nearly torn in half from the groin region and it’s baffling folks at the hospital, thanks Facebook. Once you’re done, you say a little prayer and hope for the best…what the hell is that noise?
Yes, friendo, it is the melodious song of the toilet people; rusty moans, gurgly groans and all matter of odd plumbing noises coming out of your little porcelain perch (sounds like a whale forced to listen to Nickleback). Though it’s not as physically scarring as the other two, it’s mentally debilitating, making the shatafa offensive both one of body and mind.
Pretty much running on empty here, aren’t you? Your ass might be done for now, but there’s still a little bit to go.
This one is somehow (miraculously) worse than all the others on this list, and for the saddest and most pathetic of reasons. You ponder whether or not the kids really need to go to the pool every few hours while you wait for the natural order of things to transpire, and after feeling a little bit less assaulted from your last encounter with the water spirits, you decide to do this quickly and painlessly, only to find utter disappointment. This underachiever's jet doesn’t even go a centimetre past its nozzle, it shoots out water with such horrendously low pressure that you have to do the sad thing; trying to squeeze your rear end down enough to meet with the pitiful stream, or god forbid, put the toilet seat up and attempt to mission impossible that shit. This is the plumbing equivalent of your underachieving younger sibling, except more fun to talk to.
Fire and Forget
I’m going to dump (ha ha) that kids at the pool analogy; it’s you taking a shit, that’s it, “creativity” be damned.
This is the plumbing equivalent of a soldier with a shotgun (scattergun for you old folk); it doesn’t want to aim, it doesn’t even know how to begin with, it just knows that there’s a target somewhere in that general direction. So it shoots out a fountain of disappointment so sporadic and misaligned, it hits literally everything (and cleans the bowl) except the area it was designed from the ground up to take care of. This is not only an inefficient waste of water and butt-patience (like regular patience, except much more valuable), but an affront to humanity, god and fluid mechanics.
This example also has a mirrored twin of sorts; The Sharpshooter. These nuisance’s modus operando is not to scatter, but to zone in on one target. Unfortunately, it’s the wrong target still; it aims a few millimetres lower…at the worst target imaginable…life should not be this miserable.
Some of you might ask how this article managed to find a place on the Internet (far worse things exist), or why I decided to write it in the first place, the answer? You’re not entitled to one, but I’ll tell you anyway; it’s relatable, real and a cause for concern to many a downtrodden Egyptian. Also, it was an excellent excuse to go overboard with toilet humour, we’re good at that.