GARDY-LOO! (or, WHEN IT RAINS, IT POURS...)

Natural enemy of the Allahfish.

The term “Gardy-Loo” was used in Olde England, before the blessed advent of modern plumbing. Michael Slade, in his cult novel, Ghoul, clues us to the origin of the term:

“Even walking down the street in those early days was a hazardous pastime. British in-house facilities then consisted of a chamber pot, the contents of which were tossed out the window to a cry of “Gardy-Loo!” This came from the French term “Gardez l’eau” and God help the Englishman who wasn’t bilingual. The term is still used today in ‘going to the loo’.”

Funny, I think certain politicians have been doing this for years. Maybe instead of revising the House Ethics Rules, Congress should just make Tom DeLay shout "Gardy-Loo!" everytime he pisses on the trust of the American people, or the shits away the last shreds of honor the GOP's current line-up has to play with.

Not every Republican is a hypocritical, moralizing weasal like DeLay or Rick Santorum. Don't ever think that; it's just not true. Not every "Red State" is Utah. And maybe this would be more obvious if everyone who is Tom DeLay, or Rick Santorum, (or is from Utah) would be legally obligated to shout an audible warning system when they are about to be an embarassment to their party.

It must be awkward to be a Republican right now--because, for obvious reasons, you have to support your team, right? I struggle with this every election. You have to take the good with the bad. And it can't feel good having to stick up for Tom Delay, who openly would like very much to "reacquaint" Church and State. He's implied that he would like to impeach "activist judges"--but it's clear he only means the "heathen" ones; Evangelical Christian "activists" are doing "God's work"--and how dare we hinder them, right? Oh, and I'm not terribly impressed with Bill Frist, either.

Fuck a warning cry--even a courtesy flush would be welcome, at this point. Not that anyone would notice.

I'm not even talking about John Bolton being nominated to the UN. How could I? As a big, disshevelled, hairy, sweaty guy who swears alot, how can I begrudge one of my own? The man is an inspiration to big, disshevelled, hairy, sweaty, angry guys near and far. And besides, I'm a Libertarian: Our foreign policy is just a bunch of swear words, and maybe a menacing glare. Who am I to talk?

Inspired by a recent message board discussion, wherein we related our most embarassing moments, I realized that--after spending years embarrassing politicians and religious leaders in print--it was high time I embarassed myself for a change. It's good for variety, and saves my detractors that tiny bit of effort they expend now and again, which they can now devote more fully to sending snotty e-mails, swollen with delusional, syphillitic pleas for my repentance, and jerking off to barnyard porn. Thus, I have a story from the vault--taken from my nomadic, restless years of yore. This one's for the kids.

In keeping with the theme of "trickle down"...

Several years ago, when I still wrote for Horribly Awry Magazine, I lived in a truly hideous apartment. I loved it. There are many stories I could tell about it. This one is my favorite, and probably the most personally traumatic.

This place was awful--the roaches all wore slippers, and the landlord/slumlord who owned the wretched hive had allowed the basement (which we were unable to access) to become overrun with vermin and raw sewage. This made pest control an uphill battle. Add to that our charming crackhead neighbors, and a parking lot speckled with dirty needles, and you have yourself a winner.
But still, I loved it.

The place was huge--it was a warehouse with a loft, that was converted into a home. I turned my loft room into a Gothic palace, complete with chromed bones, dangling razors, and duct-tape bondage Barbies hanging overhead. The walls were black, and the floor and ceiling were blood red, and vintage 80's horror posters adorned the downstairs walls. In other words, it was the sort of place the Feds would raid on a dare, during their lunch break, and purely for fun.

One night, I had a hot date. It was the best luck I'd encountered in many moons. She was this sultry and flirtatious British MILF--with an adorable accent, and huge...um...tracts of land, and so forth. Quite intelligent, and well-spoken, too, I might add. This one was a winner.

But I hadn't had a girl through there in months. (Usually, I dragged my one-nighters elsewhere, so as not to disturb my father, who stayed downstairs).
As a bachelor, my place was a wreck, anyway. So I had to do some last-minute cleaning...something I hadn't bothered with in ages. I'd given up, you see. But now I raced against time and the Devil himself to make this place less like Satan's Taint. I cleaned, packed, scrubbed, and swept--all collosal, herculean feats for a lonely slob as I. But it would become my Babe Lair...oh yes, I thought smugly, such a Lair it shall be! Oh, and I should probably hide the porn.

Now there was one problem with this "babe lair"--the bathroom was at the other end of the warehouse. This place was 25,000 square feet. I was upstairs. To translate this to non-single guys, it meant that this bathroom did not really exist to me, unless I was doing #2. Because, as a bachelor, who drank alot of Amber Bock and Diet Coke, the actual "bathroom" was the nearest empty 2-Liter bottle.

I worked alot of hours. I was in management training at my day job, so I literally woke up, went to work, got home, went to sleep, and repeated until the end of the week. Those bottles, which I hid behind a cabinet, began to build up over time...out of sight, out of mind.

With twenty minutes left to her arrival, I suddenly remembered that I forgot to get rid of those fucking bottles. With purest dread battling my deoderant, I looked behind the cabinet.
There were...a few.

I looked downstairs...my father (who was running late to work) still wasn't gone, like I'd assumed he would be. I wasn't going to run those bottles past him to the bathroom. There was no way I was going to explain that to him. And besides: a man's own private bottled reserve is his own damn business, right? So what could I do with them? If I waited until he left, it would likely be seconds before my date showed up, and then I might smell like pee or something. Can't have that, right? Women, being aliens, can smell even the faintest musk of manly living, and spot a germ--nay, count that microscopic beast's last tendril!--from 1000 yards away.

I thought about it, and then a little lightbulb went off: "Hey," I thought--heavens mocking with each passing processed thought, "I live upstairs...I'll just dump these out the window!" Afterall, what was beneath my window? The alley. No biggie. Drunks pissed there all the time!

Minutes left to go, I poured out the first rancid 2-liter bottle. I had no clue to its age, but the cloudy murk and primitive vegetation implied that it deserved a name, or even suffrage. Out it went...Easy as (urinal) cake.

I dumped a second round of kidney juice. Just then, I thought I heard something outside...nah. I'm a guy. I've always got time.

On to the third: I began to pour; it rolled out like a river rapid, alive with the froth of hell itself. And then I heard it--a mumble from below of "Wow, it must be raining..." followed by a deafening shriek of "OH MY GOD!!!!!! AHHHHHH!!!!! I'M COVERED! AHHH!!! OH GOD! AAHH!"

Then weeping... Then silence...

I never did see my date that night.

I'm sure that she was pissed.


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