Take a Seat

I wasn’t planning on writing about toilets again, but thanks to the Waffle House here we are.

(Image by Conger Design via Pixaby)

Since the phrase “explosive diarrhea” is making the rounds, I suppose it’s only fitting that this news surfaced:

Customer grievously injured by Waffle House toilet seat, lawsuit says.

John Brock, a 63-year old Waffle House patron, alleges he was “thrown off an improperly installed toilet seat” at a restaurant #1394 (in your face WH #1765!) Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Brock claims that the toilet seat was “damaged, dilapidated, loose, improperly mounted, unmounted” and that the seat “tipped over causing him to sustain injuries and damages.” Who made this toilet? Was it ACME? Was the salesman a coyote wearing a hat and overalls?

Mr. Brock’s physical ailments include:

Bilateral leg pain

Numbness and tingling in the legs

Lumbar radiculopathy (fancy lawyer speak for “wicked annoying sciatica.”)

Lower back pain and tenderness

Right hand and wrist pain and swelling

Headaches

Bruises, contusions, and other injuries in and about nerves, muscles, bones, tendons, ligaments, tissues, and vessels of the body

Nervousness, emotional tension, and anxiety, and depression

The complaint states Mr. Brock might need some type of unspecified surgery to some unidentified area of his body at a future date that is undetermined at this time. Brock’s legal team of Money & Money & More Money is really covering all their billable bases.

And that’s a PARTIAL list. He left out “smelling colors,” “being able to recite the 1943 U.S. tax code by memory,” and “craving raw pigeon flesh.” Mr. Brock’s harrowing ordeal has also left him with lingering emotional duress. He can no longer “enjoy various pleasures of life” and has been forced to retire early from his truck driving job.

Waffle House has robbed this man of being able to sit in peace and SIT in peace (wink!). And forget about being able to even LOOK at a plate of waffles. It’s IHOP or bust for this guy from now on.

I made my feelings about public restrooms, particularly those designated for women, very clear in a previous piece. The public bathroom stall is a national scourge in America. Once that door clicks or doesn’t-actually-latch-without-jamming-a-free-hand-or leg-against-it behind you, all bets are off. You in the porcelain jungle now, baby!

So I can sympathize somewhat with Mr. Brock. And yet—

I don’t remember when I learned to properly use a toilet, which means an adult person did their job. Since that time, a half century ago, I have not needed a primer, a short refresher course, or a TikTok to jog my memory about what’s involved in this particular chain of events. I can even make it all work out in the wild without spillage, splashage, or rouge droplets if that’s what the situation calls for. Core goals, ladies.

I grew up with grandparents who lived in a small studio apartment built next to our house. I was probably one of the only fourth graders who could talk about how much fun it was to let your legs dangle from high atop Nona’s elevated toilet seat. The grab bars were for the dismount, right? I have a brother who is disabled and a wheelchair user. I know all about portable pouches and jugs and the difference between a bathroom that is truly ADA compliant and the ones that do nothing more than make the door slightly bigger and call it a day. I think I know my way around commode town. And unless I was tripping balls or having an Elvis, I don’t think I could foul it up to the degree of no longer being able to pursue my dreams of Olympic skating gold.

And I love the Waffle House response:

“To the extent the seat was not properly bolted, the same would be open and obvious… to any user of said toilet seat.”

Translation: LOLZ! Look before you leap, bro.

Respect.

I’m Team Waffle. Not just because waffles are versatile for any time of day, for every occassion–you bet your ass I’m having a waffle station at my wake–and patently delicious, but because seriously, Mr. Brock? I think you’re leaving out a few details.

Like how you got in the stall and suddenly a bunch of Ninjas dropped out of the ceiling and you had to fight them off with nothing but your cuff links and a tube of Binaca. Just an ordinary trucker, indeed!

Or how you were minding your own business, everything very situation normal, when suddenly the ground beneath you shifted and a sinkhole opened up. Except it wasn’t a sinkhole at all, but an interstellar portal that transported you to another dimension. Thanks to FEMA official Greg Phillips, we know the Waffle House is a notorious teleportation spot.

Or you were en route to audition for America’s Next Super Mega Star in Hershey when you decided to stop off for breakfast. You went into the bathroom to run through your clog dancing routine one more time when your wig fell off and you tripped trying to keep it from landing in the bowl. Show biz, right?

Or how you were probably playing WORDLE while also answering a call while also replying to a text while also ordering a case of dog food on Amazon while also rummaging around in your pocket for your other pair of reading glasses because you were having trouble reading the already enlarged print while also watching a fly fishing video, and somewhere between making an E*Trade and downloading a booted copy of The Odyssey movie you got up, stumbled, knocked around a bit, maybe even dinged your wrist-a little.

Please. We see you, Mr. Brock. Maybe you can get away with that nonsense at a greasy, chaotic Olive Garden, in the dank basement enclave of a Red Lobster, or in a dimly lit Cheesecake Factory stall–maybe. But this is The Waffle House, son; and everyone knows the house always wins.