A narrow escape from Automatic Hell

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Updated Oct 18, 2017

The world has become an automatic place. Even in the most remote areas of Minnesota, sinks, hand dryers and toilets at the rest stops are automated. People actually believe this is good, but as a person who knows the truth (there’s no such thing as automatic, everything is operated by tiny demons who long to make your bathroom experience as harrowing as possible), I fear automation is going to be what kills me.

Apparently, I am shaped completely different from the model they use to set the sensors on toilets. I have never once been able to finish what I was doing without the auto flush. And these are no regular flushes, the pressure and suction used to get the water down will rip your colon out. I bent over to tie my shoe and lost five bucks out of my pants pocket to a gale force flush. After I actually finished my business, a toilet tornado sucked the drawstring of my shorts (which were firmly attached to my person) down into the goblin abyss. I was stuck, with my pants half down, and had no choice other than to stick my hand in a public turd receptacle to retrieve my clothing. As soon as I moved my hand toward the bowl, it flushed again and sucked the paint off the stall door. I could hear the tiny gremlins laughing hysterically, as I became certain I would drown in a Minnesota toilet. I finally put my foot over the sensor and wrestled my pants out of the drink. Of course, the millisecond I moved my foot, the giant sucking whirlpool caught the toilet paper and removed the roller from the wall.

I made it to the sink, and to my horror, it was also automated. I frantically pumped the soap dispenser with one hand, while holding the other in front of the faucet sensor, hoping to get a continuous stream of water with which to wash the toilet funk off myself. Alas, it was not to be. The water pressure in the sink was equivalent to the urine stream of a ninety year old man. As the water trickled out, I realized this was a futile effort. I looked for paper towels to at least blot away the diseased dampness and found nothing but, you guessed it, automatic hand dryers. Electricity and water, the perfect killing storm. No thanks. Fool me once, evil bathroom demons, but not three times. I left the bathroom feeling very uneasy and appearing as if I had taken a leisurely swim.

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I’m feeling mildly ill, and just waiting for the fever and chills that accompany whatever hideous affliction I’ve contracted. I now have toilet PTSD, or TPTSD, as I have named it in my lawsuit against the state of Minnesota. Beware the automatic toilet. I know, and you’re welcome.