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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

Way better than us.

In an ultra-modern shopping mall in İstanbul, we find the cinema of all cinemas. Well, I didn't actually see a film here but I did use their bathroom. And if the theater is anything like the pisser, it's pretty f'ing sweet.

They've even got little monitors in every stall.


But what gives?!?! How the hell am I supposed to watch this screen? It's behind my head! Hmmm, maybe some reverse squat, side-saddle technique. Damn these cultural differences.

Oh those Turks! They've thought of everything. BAM! Mirrors on the back of the door.

The experience is everything.

It was good for me. Was it good for you? Thanks Rogue Brewing.

Some people have it better than us.

The Germans. And their super-sleek, ultra-modern BMW Welt. The showroom of all showroom's where you can test drive cars inside the building, combust frickin' hydrogen particles to start an engine, touch screens to customize cars, and poop in the future.

It wasn't really anything especially special, but after urinal troughs and piss-covered Oktoberfest floors, this clean, pristine environ was a welcome German embrace.

I'm pretty sure a jolly lil' guy comes in after your done and does the flushing for you.

Culture shock.

So what is the biggest difference between American and European toilets?

Water, wasser, acqua, eau, agua, voda, bодa, νερό, su, apă, aqua, vìppita, aba.

Pee under extreme precaution... I hear there could be splash back.

Nobody likes a splasher.

Big Boy.

By David Sedaris

It was Easter Sunday in Chicago, and my sister Amy and I were attending an afternoon dinner at the home of our friend John. The weather was nice, and he'd set up a table in the backyard so that we might sit in the sun. Everyone had taken their places, when I excused myself to visit the bathroom, and there, in the toilet, was the absolute biggest turd I have ever seen in my life - no toilet paper or anything, just this long and coiled specimen, as thick as a burrito.

I flushed the toilet, and the big turd trembled. It shifted position, but that was it. This thing wasn't going anywhere. I thought briefly of leaving it behind for someone else to take care of, but it was too late for that. Too late, because before getting up from the table, I'd stupidly told everyone where I was going. "I'll be back in a minute," I'd said. "I'm just going to run to the bathroom." My whereabouts were public knowledge. I should have said I was going to make a phone call. I'd planned to urinate and maybe run a little water over my face, but now I had this to deal with.

The tank refilled, and I made a silent promise. The deal was that if this thing would go away, I'd repay the world by performing some unexpected act of kindness. I flushed the toilet a second time, and the big turd spun a lazy circle. "Go on," I whispered. "Scoot! Shoo!" I turned away, ready to perform my good deed, but when I looked back down, there it was, bobbing to the surface in a fresh pool of water.

Just then someone knocked on the door, and I stated to panic.

"Just a minute."

At an early age my mother sat me down and explained that everyone has bowel movements. "Everyone," she'd said. "Even the president and his wife." She'd mentioned our neighbors, the priest, and several of the actors we saw each week on television. I'd gotten the overall picture, but natural or not, there was no way I was going to take responsibility for this one.

"Just a minute."

I seriously considered lifting this turd out of the toilet and tossing it out the window. It honestly crossed my mind, but John lived on the ground floor and a dozen people were seated at a picnic table ten feet away. They'd see the window open and notice something dropping to the ground. And these were people who would surely gather round and investigate. Then there I'd be with my unspeakably filthy hands, trying to explain that it wasn't mine. But why bother throwing it out the window if it wasn't mine? No one would have believed me except the person who had left it in the first place, and chances were pretty slim that the freak in question would suddenly step forward and own up to it. I was trapped.

"I'll be out in a second!"

I scrambled for a plunger and used the handle to break the turd into manageable pieces, all the while thinking that it wasn't fair, that this was technically not my job. Another flush and it still didn't go down. Come on, pal. Let's move it. While waiting for the tank to refill, I thought maybe I should wash my hair. It wasn't dirty, but I needed some excuse to cover the amount of time I was spending in the bathroom. Quick, I thought. Do something. By now the other guests were probably thinking I was the type of person who uses dinner parties as an opportunity to defecate and catch up on my reading.

"Here I come. I'm just washing up."

One more flush and it was all over. The thing was gone and out of my life. I opened the door, to find my friend Janet, who said, "Well, it's about time." And I was left thinking that the person who'd abandoned the huge turd had no problem with it, so why did I? Why the big deal? Had it been left there to teach me a lesson? Had a lesson been learned? Did it have anything to do with Easter? I resolved to put it all behind me, and then I stepped outside to begin examining the suspects.

Park pot.

Usually like any other public pot. Just in the park. And in it's own personal, smelly, dirty, graffiti-covered room. Sometimes you pay a cover charge to get into these digs. Nice.

Double-tank.

Two is always better than one, right? Maybe the top one was there first and they just added a new toilet bowl below. Or maybe the bottom one stopped working so they just added a new one up top.

Stop asking so many questions. At least it worked.