How I Once Used A Bathroom In A Public Park Without Contracting Cholera
It was a day like most days. I had taken my daily walk, so as to settle in my stomach my light breakfast of poached eggs and one dozen oysters I customarily enjoy before heading down to the factory I own (I am a fabulously wealthy plutocrat) to check figures and yell at my shiftless employees. Now, I am of the opinion that some physical exertion is good for the body, and not merely the provenance of common laborers.
I strolled down a lovely lane in the city’s finest park, the one bearing my name, Shumway Danforth Pembrooke IV, as I donated the funds and land with which to build it. I enjoy this park a great deal, for this is where I attend a secluded wooded area most nights with my sweet Nell — my niece, secretary, and mistress who sees to my various needs with great aplomb. As I leisurely ambled my ample frame about, I whistled my favorite happy tune, “Me and My Gal Sipping Milk By the Shore On a Moon-Filled July Eve.” Suddenly, a great and powerful rumbling stirred forth from deep inside of my undercarriage.
I was rather confused. Why, according to my pocket watch made of the finest gold, it was merely nine-forty-five in the ante meridiem, and my bowel movement commences at precisely eleven o’five anti meridiem! This is why I take my constitutional each morning from nine-forty to nine-fifty in the ante meridiem — it provides the time needed for my loyal chauffeur Reginald to take me to the factory, and then home, where I can move mine bowels in luxurious comfort.
It was simply too early for this biological urgency, and, it should be noted, severe. Did the kitchen staff use lowly brown-shelled eggs? I wondered. Did they serve me those godforsaken Spanish oysters? Whatever the reason, it would be handled later (with a swift termination if need be), for at this moment, I needed immediate relief.
“Reginald!” I called out to no avail. But alas, he could not hear my plaintive wails, as he was with the carriage, ensuring that no ruffians would come along to steal, defile, or eat my horses. An unscheduled return trip to my mansion would not prove possible, and it would seem that I had but two choices: Soil myself in full view of the various park-folk (vim-filled fellow exercisers, slumbering hobos, and a man selling tubed sausages inside of bread rolls), or employ the use of the free-to-the-public plumbing facilities.
When the city planners asked for an additional amount of funds with which to build this room of rest in the park that bore my name, I scoffed, but then threw a handful of currency at them. (It was procured from my money wastebasket, where I place bills that have touched by a service worker.) I did not want my park to have such a public room of rest, as they are certainly the most active breeding ground of the biggest threat facing our world today: cholera. To have this facility in one’s park is to actively spread cholera!
These thoughts tormented my mind as I hurriedly shuffled to the entrance of this room of rest. I entered, asked for a blessing, and secured the door behind myself with some kind of push-operated lock mechanism. And there, dear reader, is where I hurriedly removed all of my garments, hung them on the provided hook, and hovered my derriere over the water-filled bowl, careful to not let my skin or flesh press against the presumably filthy porcelain.
Then, how the fecal matter did flow, rapidly, smoothly, and with the color and consistency of the most delectable treats from the finest chocolatiers in all of Switzerland. With much quickness, the uncomfortable (and distractingly loud) noises spewing forth from within me subsided. I dabbed my point of exit with several pieces of folded tissue (the first time I have used such a conveyance, as I prefer the bidet), dressed, and was on my way, once again whistling “Me and My Gal Sipping Milk By the Shore On a Moon-Filled July Eve.”
I returned to the carriage, where Reginald waited. (Ah, Reginald!) “To the factory, sir?” Reginald asked. “On the contrary,” I replied. “Let us go to the physician’s office!”
For I needed a full workup of tests and whatnot, as I had just used a public room of rest. I was confident I’d be granted a clean bill of health, as my skin had not met seat. I submitted myself to all manner of pricks, pokes, bloodletting, ingestion of test mercury, and various lead-based salves. I am proud to confirm, dear reader, that my suspicion was correct. Despite using a public “bathroom” as the underclass calls it, I had not, by the grace of Baphomet, contracted the deadly cholera. Huzzah!
Katie Goldin’s Golden Rules
Weekly comics from the mind of Bunny Ears writer Katie Goldin. They're weird, they're funny, and they're always so pretty! The Goldin Rules…