Stupidity Takes a Dump

For the past few days, I’ve been an invited visitor at the stately, highly exclusive, legendary Los Angeles Country Club, courtesy of a junior golf tournament in which my son participated. Certain that stupidity, in all its various idiotic forms, would be absent, I never once looked over my shoulder. Alas, I was indeed assaulted.

ClubhouseUpon entering the elegant, exquisitely maintained grounds, I was impressed by the lushness and beauty of the gardens and golf course. I made a silent vow to become a member as soon as I made my first one, ten, twenty, fifty million. I longingly watched the centenarian members quaveringly shuffle a few feet from the valet to the front door of the club house, panting and wheezing upon their arrival. They dressed like aristocrats. There were a few younger people as well, playboy types and even a mother with younger children and nannies, but I am willing to bet these were accidental members (meaning their presence was due to some much, much older patriarch or matriarch member).

I noticed stray champagne glasses, mostly empty, deposited in discreet places around the parking lot, no doubt courtesy of the playboys or possibly even the CEO of all playboys, Hugh Hefner, who could be still disgruntled for having been allegedly denied membership, even though his mansion overlooks one of the fairways.

I continued being completely impressed by the well-dressed and courteous staff… until day two.

I had to use the facilities. The Clubhouse was off limits to guests, even humble stupidity specialists, such as myself. But I noticed they had a lovely powder room over by the driving range. Did I mention that I, and all other parents whose young men were playing in the tournament, were given a long list of rules and regulations, resembling the Bill of Rights? These governed our dress, code of conduct in the parking lot and on the course (the two places that were not off limits to us) and toilet privileges.

I skipped down the long and winding cart path to the driving range, humming and enjoying the tranquil surroundings. What an oasis, I thought, amid the smog and King Kong size buildings. I entered the little bungalow that housed the dainty toilette. I opened the door and entered an aged, almost decrepit, but genteel, small waiting area with one stall. Ancient, teal colored carpet covered the floor, including in the stall.

Innocently opening the stall door… I let out a shriek that shook the nearby and very grand Mormon Temple’s fourteen-carat gold, enormous rooftop statues. I was traumatized for the next twenty-two minutes by the sight that greeted me. Some stuper (short for a grossly stupid person), likely a very large individual or two or seven, had OD’d on a laxative-prune juice cocktail and emptied its bowels into this very toilet.

I raced out and alerted a passing gardener. He apologized. I’ve got to hand it to them; that cesspool was revitalized in no time.

Then, dear readers, I moved on to the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel to meet my sis for lunch. Another grand showplace. Since I was unable to use the ladies room at the Club, I decided to try the Hotel.

This powder room was all glamour with individual hand towels, marble floors and private, mahogany-walled bathrooms that housed each stall. I opened the door to a toilette and… the Mad Crapper had struck again. Was I part of some new reality show? Or was this the work of a stuper akin to an arsonist, a crappist, if you will, who instead of setting fires, ravaged toilets? Or perhaps the people (the women anyway) in ritzy Beverly Hills are so stressed out, they are suffering from acute, uncontrollable bowel movements? I flushed the toilet and moved to another, cleaner stall.

Whatever was happening, the stupers were at work. Both toilets could have been potentially flushed, and if not, assistance could have been requested. Toilet bowl assault can and should be avoided. I’ve seen cleaner outhouses and gas station restrooms. Out of order toilets and minds seemed to go together.

Stop and think. Please.


7 Responses to “Stupidity Takes a Dump”

  1. Jennifer says:

    Oh my soul, Keli. This kind of thing drives me up the wall. WHY, WHY, WHY cannot people clean up after themselves? It is one of the mysteries of the universe. I want to be a millionaire someday but I hope I’m the nice kind and never a snobby one like those people at that country club.

  2. Paulyn says:

    Could it be that the women in ritzy Beverly Hills aren’t educated on the part about flushing toilets after use… especially when you are suffering from uncontrollable bowel movements? …hmmm… makes me wonder!

  3. dawn says:

    How disgusting. From Walmart to the Country Club – there are Mad Crappers everywhere…

  4. Sarah says:

    This sort of thing is gross! But then again, stupers know not what they do.

  5. Keli says:

    I have no doubt you’d be the nice kind. I decided after that incident to join the Club after all. Then I’m going to donate my membership to a homeless person, just to mix things up and help out at the same time.
    I think they just assume some one else will take care of it for them.
    I really didn’t expect them at the Club since they had a huge staff overseeing every little detail…except the ladies room. Which probably was because there were only a handful of women there! It was an old school, old boys hangout.
    You’re right. They most certainly do not!

  6. FerdC says:

    Keli, because of you I am starting to realize just how much my life is shittified by the stupers amongst us! I am grateful for your keen eye and journalism.

    And I bet you’re glad you could hold it from the Club to the Hotel! Way to “go!”

  7. Keli says:

    I’m quite good at “holding it,” thank you, in hopes of finding a clean bathroom. Usually, I don’t get the mad crapper twice in a row!

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