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It's a woman thing


avongas

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Sue and I received this in our e-mail last night from a friend of ours. I know it's really aimed at you girls but it made me laugh, so fellas - bear with me and enjoy it.

 

 

 

 

 

When you have to visit a public toilet, you usually find a line of

 

women, so you smile politely and take your place.

 

 

 

Once it's your turn, you check for feet under the cubicle doors. Every

 

cubicle is occupied.

 

 

 

Finally, a door opens and you dash in, nearly knocking down the woman

 

leaving the cubicle.

 

 

 

You get in to find the door won't latch. It doesn't matter, the wait has

 

been so long you are about to wet your pants!

 

 

 

The dispenser for the modern 'seat covers' (invented by someone's Mum,

 

no doubt) is handy, but empty. You would hang your bag on the door hook,

 

if there was one, so you carefully, but quickly drape it around your

 

neck,

 

 

 

(Mum would turn over in her grave if you put it on the FLOOR!) down with

 

your pants and assume ' The Stance.

 

 

 

In this position, your aging, toneless, thigh muscles begin to shake.

 

 

 

You'd love to sit down, but having not taken time to wipe the seat or to

 

lay toilet paper on it, you hold 'The Stance.'

 

 

 

To take your mind off your trembling thighs, you reach for what you

 

discover to be the empty toilet paper dispenser.

 

 

 

In your mind, you can hear your mother's voice saying, 'Dear, if you had

 

tried to clean the seat, you would have KNOWN there was no toilet

 

paper!'

 

 

 

Your thighs shake more.

 

 

 

You remember the tiny tissue that you blew your nose on yesterday - the

 

one that's still in your bag (the bag around your neck, that now you

 

have to hold up trying not to strangle yourself at the same time).

 

 

 

That would have to do, so you crumple it in the puffiest way possible.

 

It's still smaller than your thumbnail.

 

 

 

Someone pushes your door open because the latch doesn't work.

 

 

 

The door hits your bag, which is hanging around your neck in front of

 

your chest and you and your bag topple backward against the tank of the

 

toilet.

 

 

 

'Occupied!' you scream, as you reach for the door, dropping your

 

precious, tiny, crumpled tissue in a puddle on the floor, while losing

 

your footing altogether and sliding down directly onto the TOILET SEAT.

 

 

 

It is wet of course. You bolt up, knowing all too well that it's too

 

late.

 

 

 

Your bare bottom has made contact with every imaginable germ and life

 

form on the uncovered seat because YOU never laid down toilet paper -

 

not that there was any, even if you had taken time to try.

 

 

 

You know that your mother would be utterly appalled if she knew, because

 

you're certain her bare bottom never touched a public toilet seat

 

because,

 

 

 

Frankly, dear, 'You just don't KNOW what kind of diseases you could get.

 

 

 

 

 

By this time, the automatic sensor on the back of the toilet is so

 

confused that it flushes, propelling a stream of water like a fire hose

 

against the inside of the bowl and spraying a fine mist of water that

 

covers your bum and runs down your legs and into your shoes.

 

 

 

The flush somehow sucks everything down with such force and you grab

 

onto the empty toilet paper dispenser for fear of being dragged in too.

 

 

 

At this point, you give up. You're soaked by the spewing water and the

 

wet toilet seat. You're exhausted.

 

 

 

You try to wipe with a sweet wrapper you found in your pocket and then

 

slink out inconspicuously to the sinks.

 

 

 

You can't figure out how to operate the taps with the automatic sensors,

 

 

 

 

 

so you wipe your hands with spit and a dry paper towel and walk past the

 

line of women still waiting

 

 

 

You are no longer able to smile politely to them. A kind soul at the

 

very end of the line points out a piece of toilet paper trailing from

 

your shoe.

 

 

 

(Where was that when you NEEDED it?)

 

 

 

You yank the paper from your shoe, plunk it in the woman's hand and tell

 

her warmly, 'Here, you just might need this.

 

 

 

As you exit, you spot your hubby, who has long since entered, used and

 

left the men's toilet. Annoyed, he asks,

 

 

 

'What took you so long and why is your bag hanging around your neck?

 

 

 

This is dedicated to women everywhere who deal with any public rest

 

rooms/toilets (rest??? you've GOT to be kidding!!).

 

 

 

It finally explains to the men what really does take us so long.

 

 

 

It also answers that other commonly asked question about why women go to

 

the toilets in pairs.

 

 

 

It's so the other gal can hold the door, hang onto your bag and hand you

 

Kleenex under the door.

 

 

 

This HAD to be written by a woman! No one else could describe it so

 

accurately.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Send this to all women that need a good laugh.

 

 

 

A Friend Is Like A Good Bra...

 

 

 

Hard to Find

 

 

 

Supportive

 

 

 

Comfortable

 

 

 

Always Lifts You Up

 

 

 

Never Lets You Down or Leaves You Hanging

 

 

 

And Is Always Close To Your Heart!!!

 

 

:D :D :-)

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