Warning.

Don't let the sticker fool you. I wouldn't eat in this restaurant let alone this bathroom. Although the food tasted fine going in, the stomach was all hate for the two subsequent days.

This cute sticker is no constellation for food poisoning.

Los Servicios.

Since I am absolutely against paying to use a toilet and often traveling, I just do like all the other Hondureño males do.

My baño is frequently on the side of the road, between two trucks, on a dirty wall, or in a semi-private corner. Try to watch the slash-back off the concrete.

Although I've yet to nonchalantly whip it out in San Marcos where I live. Trying to maintain a little respect at home.

Balancing act.

Instead of fixing their botched preposition, they should substitute: Please don't lean on the tank.

Author's note: Everything in Greece comes only in these colors.

Ceiling flush.

Comfortable sitting there, huh?

Yeah, that's right.

Above your head.

Can't flush this one sitting down.

Art, fashion, design.

With a reputation of flashy fashion, high society, and elitist attitudes, you'd think the Milanese would have sexier places to relieve themselves. Nope. They use the same dirty stink pots that commoners do.


Maybe this one has Carrara marble on the inside.

Gladiator.

Picture this: You're about to march through the amphitheater's stone arches to face 30,000 screaming, blood-lusting brutes. Spittle and curses fly from toothless jaws while the dirt floor already clumped into obscure pellets stained dusty burgundy.

Nervous? Need fast relief?

Asking yourself, "While in the bowels of the arena before a brutal contest, where did the Romans crap?"

Answer:

Disclaimer: This amphitheater was actually used for opera.

Seatless.

Sometimes they just don't come with seats.

But it's especially satisfying when someone has the kind heart to break off the seat.

Oh well. A gratis toilet is always welcome in Venice.

Choices.

Those Seattlites love a fully loaded stall. Options baby, options.

World-class amenities.

WC. Food. Ice Cream. Camel.

What more could I ask for?

Point of view.

The best seat at sea is often in the pisser.

Resonance and reverberation.

A tribute to the creepiest place on earth: the Ploce train station.

With only a handful of daily trains passing through, it was deserted. One word epitomizes the atmosphere. Echo.

The acoustic in this place were stunning. Every word spoken, every shoe scraping across the floor, and every tap of a pen on a cold, plastic table echoed throughout the station with stunning clarity. Snap your fingers and you'd think an army was tap dancing in. Click your heels and you'd instantly take the train to Kansas and back, umpteen times.

So imagine the glorious symphony of bathroom sounds. Ricocheting urine, repetitive flatulence, or the infamous waterfall flush summoning impending Armageddon.

The desolate cart toilet was out of order, and the actual toilets, located to the left of the carts, were so special that I've since blacked them out of my memory.

Disappointment.

Rest stop closed? Guess I'll just go in the grass next to my car.

Tough stains, no more!

Makes cleanup a cinch.

Are those fold down arm rests?

Terrible.

Just plain bad design.

Let's take a closer look.

Yep, I'm not sticking my finger in there.

Revolution or devolution.

Here is the future.



And here are the facts.

At least now men of the world can unite and pee green.

Sorry ladies, this eco-friendly pissing thing is a gentleman's only club. In fact, as progressive alpha males, we could solve this issue by ditching the toilet all together and going behind a tree. In the bushes. Between parked cars. Behind a dumpster.

Or maybe with some black-socked, beer-guzzling Germans along a fence... next to the porta-potties.

But who wants to relieve themselves in a smelly, plastic box that's been roasting in the sun all day? Not me. I'll embrace the group session along the fence.

Broke.

Sad. I know. Let's just remember it as it once was. In its time of glory.

Park pot II: a popular attraction.

The most inefficient public toilet in San Francisco.

The alleged intricacies: A cleaning cycle lasts for 5 minutes after EVERY use. "The City of San Francisco assumes that all tourists near Pier 39 are the filth of the earth."

The alleged complexities: A revolving, cyndrilical door rotates open allowing only one adult inside at a time. "The City of San Francisco aims to reduce the chances for hanky panky inside our Pier 39 pot."

"Come take a squat at Pier 39." -The City of San Francisco

And thus, there's a bigger line outside of this toilet then the tour to Alcatraz.

Submitted by Dustin. We're taking submissions now. Send them in!

Twist and shout.

Please grip plastic tab firmly between your index finger and thumb. Turn gently clockwise. Flush.

Prehistoric pot.

The ancient Greeks had it all, over 2,500 years ago.

But was I doing this horribly wrong? Were the archaic sitters really squatters?

In any case, it must've been great to do your business where all your buddies could see.

Way, way worse.

Now... it could have been dirtier and smellier. And at least I wasn't flanked on each side by squatting, grunting old men like in Belgrade. I did have my privacy. I'll give them that.

The worst part was the flush. Use the red contraption under the faucet. Wash it away... wash it all away, out of sight.

There. Don't you feel better now?