>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
January 22, 2006

Paris. The city of love. Where we can watch twelve American women—twelve money hungry, reproducing-craving, egg-rotting, American women fight for the affection of (and I don't feel I'm alone here) one unattractive doctor bachelor. But this story isn't about drunken Barbie and friends’ adventure in France, it's about Rory. We all remember Rory's terrible trouble with a challenging BM. And at the end of that story it was determined by all those who read it, that Rory, the good human being that he is, never deserved an experience as phenomenally hellacious as the atomic poo. Certainly it could never happen to him again. But much like rapper Master P finds himself performing ballroom dance every week, Rory too discovered that nothing in life is certain.

When we last heard from Rory he had just finished having a severe case of diarrhea/dysentery all over the floor of the Performing Arts Center's men's room. Since then he's lived a normal life. First term of his senior year, Rory decided to study abroad. So he went to London to learn about Shakespeare, Parliament, Manchester United, and an in-depth analysis of Posh Spice. During this extravagant fish and chips festival of a trimester, Rory decided he had had enough of England, grabbed three of his friends and his Euro Pass, and hopped a train to France. Now you must realize, when a friend studies abroad, they never really study. They spend an entire semester traveling around Europe trying to figure out the safest hostel to crash at. (Note: Speaking strictly from experience, there are some f-ed up hostels in Europe.) But as interesting as it is, this isn't a story about a Spanish youth hostel located in wild boar territory that employs only the mentally handicapped (which really does exist). This true story is about Rory and the return of the Atomic Poo.

“When you find yourself at the point where the feces from hell are about to spew forth from your body, locking mechanisms are not your first priority.”

If any of you have been to France, you may notice an hour after deboarding the plane that there are no public restrooms, period. In fact, in Europe in general, public restrooms are few and far between, with the exception of England and Ireland (although everyone there seems to just piss on the sidewalk right outside of whatever pub they were in). Instead, France offers private pay restrooms on the sidewalk—essentially just a plastic-looking rocket ship with a toilet inside. No sink. Hardly any toilet paper. Just a toilet with a complicated flushing mechanism that you spend ten minutes trying to figure out how to work before throwing your unwashed hands up in the air screaming, “Forget it!! Maybe I'll blend in more if I smell like them!”

So Rory is spending his afternoon in Niece on the French Mediterranean watching French-speaking men and women in their Lacoste golf shirts with the collars flipped up laughing and pointing at the Americans taking pictures of themselves re-enacting the opening scene of Baywatch in their signature American sweatpants and denim jackets. All of a sudden Rory hears it. Ding! Growing tired of watching his friends pretending to run in slow motion, he walks over to a sidewalk port-o-potty/rocket ship but there's a sign on it that says, “utiliser un autre toilet,” which means, “Astronauts at Work.” But Rory figured it said “Out of Order.” No big deal, even the simplest phrases get lost in translation. Whatever the damn thing said, it was clearly unavailable. The only other restroom Rory knew about was five blocks away at the train station, so he decided maybe he'd just find one along the way. And so he did. He went inside a store that reflected our Target, paid his two Euros to the male attendant who in turn handed him a dainty paper napkin. Rory, thanked him, went into the stall, and proceeded to “Dump like a truck.” When he was through making his deposit, Rory, typical American that he is, turned to where the toilet paper should be only to realize that the only paper in the room was the sliver of paper in his hand. Since he didn't know enough French to ask the attendant if he could possibly spare another cocktail napkin, he made the best of what he could, hiked two blocks to the train station, finished up there with a respectable load of toilet paper, then headed back to the beach.

About an hour or so later, Rory's tummy began to feel funny. But not funny like the first time Atomic Poo came to visit, so Rory was still naively unconcerned. Shortly then after they found a French bistro, where a young woman they were with found it appalling that French fries weren't on the menu. But you know what kind of digestive pains I'm talking about. It's the feeling you get after you've eaten too much Hunan Munan, when your stomach becomes vocal with uncomfortable growling and uncontrollable gurgles. Rory, tired of watching ignorant French fry girl shred her over-priced chicken, decided to step outside for some fresh Mediterranean air to release some not-so-fresh air in an attempt to put his stomach at ease. But as he began to walk back into the restaurant, Rory noticed that his under garments were feeling unusually moist. His stomach released a final rebellious gurgle, and Rory new something fierce was coming. He ran into the restaurant and asked where the bathrooms were. To which the snotty host replied, “No toilets!” Rory, already feeling a second gastroneous wave passing over him, ran from the restaurant and down to the restrooms with the toilet paper Nazi, but alas, they were closed. And that's when it happened, “Urgent! Urgent! Urgent!” Rory ran across the street, burst through the entrance of another restaurant, and with limbs flailing crazily, flew all the way to the back of the restaurant where he proceeded to dramatically fling open doors until he found a toilet. It was like a humpless Quasimodo looking for his sanctuary.

When he finally found it, Rory turned around to shut the door and noticed there was no lock. And no offense but when you find yourself at the point where the feces from hell are about to spew forth from your body, locking mechanisms are not your first priority. Learning from his mistake the first time, Rory remembered not to thrust his pants down right away, otherwise everything shoots out like a fountain all over the floor. So Rory assessed the situation in his limited time frame. With hands shakily removing his belt buckle he looked down and with wide eyes gasped, “No fucking way.

The toilet had no seat.

No seat.


Maybe it’s a badae….

Nope, it’s a toilet with the seat missing.

Out of all the toilets seats in the entire country, Rory got stuck with the one with a multiple urine-stained rim where the seat should have been.

Sweet God almighty. Fuck the French! Fuck them and their snotty attitudes, their wine, and their big phallic Eiffel Tower.

But Rory had little time to contemplate the beret-wearing fucks and their third world facilities. The wrath of God was upon him. He built a sparse makeshift nest with the limited toilet paper he had and proceeded “to squirt out liquid poo for ten minutes.” Only so many of us could imagine, but angling yourself on the toilet rim and pooing are two jobs unto themselves. I couldn’t imagine having to do both at the same time, but somehow Rory overcame the odds of falling in and did it. And while the vile was unhinging itself from Rory’s insides, his body had some sort of chemical reaction. Excessive sweat began pouring down from Rory’s brow. His glasses fogged up constantly. And for a moment, Rory truly believed he had entered the room where only Satan takes his Satanly dumps. Then, right when Rory was about to lift off the toilet paper and end this sequel of a nightmare, it all went black.

The lights in Satan’s Toilet Express had expired. Rory sat there balancing himself on the rim of the toilet in complete and utter darkness. No windows. No crack under the door to shed even a miniscule of light. And so Rory sat there, pants around his ankles, fogged glasses, toilet paper in hand, a look of utter shock on his face (if anyone could have seen it). And Rory sat there, pondering what to do, “At one point Simonne, I thought I was seriously going to have to scream for help. For a moment I believed that some French janitor would find me dead here in the morning in Satan’s sauna.” But miraculously the door burst open and the light flickered back on. Standing in a halo of light was a French waiter who began yelling furiously at Rory…who remained on sitting on the toilet with a helpless shrug. After a few moments of intense screaming and reprimanding, the waiter grew tired of the silent guy hunched over protecting his dignity (although I can’t imagine how that’d be possible when you have soiled underpants around your ankles) and slammed the door shut. But at least now the lights were on again. Now what to do with the underpants? Throw them in the garbage. No big deal, Rory thought.

But, in a stunning crescendo of events, there of course was no garbage can. There was also no sink. Actually, if you looked at the layout of the bathroom, it only had a seatless toilet bowl, a toilet paper dispenser, and a mirror, which was too steamed up to even conjure a reflection. Why would anyone want to eat at a place where the employee bathroom had no sink?!! People go to France and contract herpes from eating their filet mignon because some chef touched his wang then touched your meat!! Anyway, after much deliberation Rory concluded he had three, and only three choices:

1. Carry the feces through the restaurant and dispose of it outside.
2. Punt it to the cunt waiter who wigged out on him while on the can and then run like hell.
3. Tuck it neatly behind the toilet and hope that no one caught a good enough look at the underpants culprit to describe to a sketch artist.

Rory, of course, went with option three. Ready for anything, he opened the bathroom door a crack, saw an escape route, and sprinted commando through the restaurant, out the door, and up eight blocks to the train station where his party was waiting for their night train to another French city. Rory stalked by them and went straight to the public restroom, sanitizing his hands, his face, his money belt, everything that could have potentially been affected by the Atomic Poo’s untimely visit. Then he hopped on the train, leaving a little bit of himself in Niece forever that fateful day.

Now, out there somewhere is a French waiter telling all of his French tobacco-infested friends about the time he found the American taking a dump in the pisser, yelled at him for it, then found a pile of “merde” wrapped up in Calvin Klein boxer briefs wedged between the toilet and the wall. And that is why today, boys and girls, the French still despise Americans, and Americans barely tolerate the French. If you still go to France after this story and contract gonorrhea from your French Cuisine meal, don’t say I didn’t warn you.