Archive for July, 2008

Stupidity Takes a Dump

Thursday, July 3rd, 2008

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.

Keli

Keli@counterfeithumans.com