You know you’ve met one. Perhaps you’ve never seen their face. Or known their name. But … you know you’ve met one.
The dreaded toilet talker.
I’ll give you a hint. This species of human being usually reveals its hidden nature within the confines of a public bathroom. Inside a stall. RIGHT NEXT TO YOU … as you’re taking a tinkle … or even worse …
That’s right. The toilet talker knows no shame. The toilet talker understands no boundary. This individual sits there, his or her thighs pressed neatly against cool, white porcelain, and blabs on a cell phone while urine rains into the pool of water waiting so patiently below. The toilet talker’s victims are many, from the unfortunate spouse or friend or parent on the other end of the cell phone, to the sisters quickly and quietly washing their hands in the sink–to YOU–sitting there benevolently in the neighboring stall, listening to a stranger’s thoughts on Russian/American relations in Crimea and wincing each time a spat of flatulence slips between their words.
You feel embarrassed for them, but also for you. Because suddenly you know that their 6-year-old son’s rash might be the chicken pox, and their boss reemed them for not meeting that quarterly deadline.
Probably because you spent too dang long in the bathroom, you think. And suddenly, you come to realize that this person has given a whole new meaning to the term, “TMI.”
Yes, this is the toilet talker. I’m sure you’ve met one. Care to tell?