A lavatorial revolution

January 9, 9:49 AMDenver Live Music ExaminerWilliam Jiles

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A few days ago, a dreadful event occurred. Moments after my morning urination, my left thumb-toe was viciously attacked by my cat. To my horror, I watched my cell phone, now helplessly caught in the crossfire between my limp right arm and my mind as I struggled to regain an ounce of my mediocre morning skills this early in the morning, plummet into the dark, treacherous depths of the bowl. Fatefully, after suffering a small aneurysm, I sobbed as my slowly sinking lifeline-to-the-three-people-I-know mutely hit the ceramic ocean floor. There is no feeling like that of having your arm in your own pee long enough to feel it transition from 98.6 degrees to some 68 degrees or whatever my thermostat was set to. Now readers, I’m sure I’m not the only one who’s noticed how intensely warm, yellow and horrifyingly stinky the first morning pee is …

Hours later, while nursing my now raw arm after scrubbing it to the bone with a steel brush and the last of the 409, I started to think: If bowel evacuation is such a private affair, why are cats cruising by mine and why are Denver venues in such dire need of some major lavatory maintenance? I expect better than this. Better than the countless construction sites I’ve been to with better drainage than some of these places.

We’ve all been blacked-out-drunk at the Ogden Theatre, blindly stumbling from one stall to the next searching for the one with the least foreign objects lodged in the bowl. Or fearfully using the toilet at the Hi-Dive, only to find that, despite , my speed peeing efforts, at least two people have come in asking for lighters. I’ve even interrupted what appeared to be a sorority meeting in a couple men’s stalls at Cervantes.

Obviously things are getting our of hand, not just for me, but the kids. We have children. Do we want our kids being attacked by stray urine and irresistible drug bargains during communal bathroom breaks during a Miley Cyrus cover show? No, absolutely not. As I understand, there is a health inspector who is employed for the exact safety I am referring to, however he or she somehow managed to miss the steaming pile of toilet paper in the last stall, the middle sink, which seems to have served as a small, but very popular, methamphetamine lab and the self righteous prose scripted on the wall depicting me as a small Italian boy and the toilet bowl brush as a castration scalpel. As realistic as the drawings and convincingly clean the syringes, we are in desperate need of a revolution!

Expect change; a working condom and breath strip dispenser!