The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club by Laurie Notaro Page B

scissors, and in the third round they decided that maybe I was telling the truth.
    “I’m going to give you a warning,” Barney declared. “Don’t hold up traffic anymore. You know, that third car behind you completely missed the light.”
    “That sucks,” I said sympathetically.
    “And don’t do any more drinking!” he added.
    “I can’t,” I replied. “I’ve run out of money, charm, and, apparently, luck.”
    I looked at Chris. He looked like he had lost a gallon of blood.
    I lit another cigarette as we pulled out of the gas station and joined the caravan of cars headed to Patti’s place. I realized then that I was lucky that I had absolutely no sex appeal whatsoever; if I had, I, without a doubt, would have been drunk, cuffed, and on my way to a new life and new job in the prison laundry.
    Well, it might not have been so bad; maybe I could have found myself a nice girl and finally settled down.

This Is a
Public Service
Announcement
    I hate public bathrooms.
    I love and respect the sanctity of my own home potty; it may be as dirty as a truck stop, but at least I know the filth is mine, and I am free to do as I please or need. The fear of having to use a public bathroom is so horrible that I will do just about anything to avoid it.
    When I was in sixth grade, my mother made me sign up for Girl Scout camp, and when I got there, I knew I was in for a long haul. The only way the facilities remotely qualified for the term
rest room
was because there was a light switch and a swinging bare bulb; other than that luxury, it was an outhouse, a long stream of port-o-potties lined in a row that smelled like the 4-H exhibit at the state fair on a hot day. The acoustics were incredible, and nearly echoed. What choice did I have? I held it for nearly two weeks and probably should have been hospitalized when I got home, but the pain that shot through my body when my intestines finally seized was nothing compared to the shame of pushing out a plopper within earshot of fifty Girl Scouts.
    Even as an adult, I’ve noticed that some people don’t play by the rules and terrorize other people in the potty. I have therefore documented several bathroom terrorists that have tormented me and countless other potty hostages, forcing us to hold it for unnatural periods of time. If you see yourself in any of the descriptions below, seek help. Cease your awful behavior before I am forced to do it for you.
    Because I will.
    The Trespasser: This violator is no friendly neighbor. She seeks pleasure by invading audio and aroma space of an already occupied unit by ignoring the “One-Stall Cushion” rule. She blatantly chooses the one next to it, despite groups of other available units within the vicinity. This action will automatically cease the operations being conducted in the already occupied stall, causing health risks and alarm. From a personal perspective, I can tell you that I try to use my turn-on/shut-off valve as little as possible so I don’t wear it out and become incontinent by my next birthday, because they don’t have transplants for those, you know. Try this catchphrase to remind you: “Beware of Fart, Stay One Apart.”
    The Hoverer: Perhaps to avoid using a time-consuming potty protector, perhaps to mark her territory, this offender won’t let her bottom touch the seat, although it’s perfectly OK if her by-products do. Now, the target area of a bowl is rather generous, so the reasons for a misfire are rather mysterious to me, unless the participant is completely standing up and aiming from a corner. Hovering is never, NEVER acceptable behavior unless you just dug a hole in the forest. Remember this the next time you’re tempted to resist a complete landing: “Don’t Leave Your Mark, Just Sit Down and Park.”
    The Talker: Easily identifiable as the office chatterbox, the powers of this malefactor increase in strength once you are trapped in the same room and you’re half naked. Starting off with something as