More stories from the loo

No, not the Louvre. The loo.

As our lacrosse game in St Catharines is an early one this week, I will visit the I.S. afterwards. Therefore car-pooling arrangements with teammate Porn King are altered. We meet not at his Burlington house but at a parking lot on Centennial Road, just off the highway at the Hamilton - Stoney Creek border.

At this large, relatively dead plaza there’s a Golden Griddle Restaurant – haven of extremely bland food. It’s a great place to go though, at six in the morning on the tail of a vicious bender where wine with dinner migrated seamlessly into double scotches at a noisy dance bar then quadruple scotches at an after-hours party and then stunned disbelief at the rising sun, a wildly spinning environment and the realization that you’ve devolved into a four-legged beast. A place where you can pound back eight cups of coffee and six breakfasts and begin the slow agonizing recovery into being human again.

Not that I would ever do anything like that.

Ever again.

It’s also a great place to duck into on a hot afternoon to make use of their bathroom and change out of your office clothes and into shorts and T-shirt. And that is my intention.

But the bathroom is small – with just one cubicle and it’s in use. So I wait. I hear voices inside it.

“I don’t think this poo will drop,” says a voice - a very young one.

“Sure it will,” says a parental one.

Groaning... grunting…

“There it goes! Weeeeeeeee! Sploosh!”

“Weeeeeee! Sploosh!” sings dad and thus begins the father-and-son turd-dropping song in two part harmony.

I'm forced to leave. It’s that or crumple to the floor in hysterics. I get changed in the truck.

I can conceive of the idea of having a child. It’s not entirely unimaginable. But taking part in the poo-dropping song?

Sorry. No can do. I can only assume that having children must do something weird and magical to your brain.

FWG