I used to have this little toy motorhome. I’m not a redneck, although I confess I did grow up in an area that some people would classify as redneck. And also, half the kids in my class did have rat tails. I was in the other half, I swear. I was holding out for one of those Batman symbol buzz cuts.
But anyway, this toy motorhome–inside was a steering wheel, a kitchenette, a bunk, and a toilet. I was smitten with this toilet inside–a toilet in my toy car! I showed everyone. Anyone that came over. Parents’ friends. Grandparents. Neighbors. It became kind of like my thing. “Show ’em that little toilet in your car,” my parents would tease. And I’d run back to my room, grab the motorhome, and show ’em the toilet inside.
I’ve always been intrigued by toilets. The potty. The loo. The commode. The Porcelain God. We’d go on vacation, check into the hotel room–my mom would first go on the balcony to see the view; me and my sister would run to the bathroom to check out the toilet. “Look Mom, this one flushes fast,” we’d be screaming out to her.
One thing I’ve never had is my own bathroom. I’ve always had to share one with a minimum of 2-3 other people. However even this appears to be a luxury compared to stories from the older folks in my life, who seemingly all have stories of sharing a bathroom with 8-9 other people while growing up. But then, old people usually exaggerate.
In the house that I rent, there is a toilet in the basement. Note–I did not say there was a bathroom in the basement. Just a toilet–a random, 80 year old toilet, sitting next to the washer and sharing the plumbing with it. No walls, no curtains, just Hi There, I’m Mr. Toilet.
A Baltimore toilet, a lot of the houses around here have these stray toilets hooked up to the plumbing in the basement. There we were, the day I moved in, 28 and 25 years old, my sister helping me move. She was carrying my 4 foot Tiki statue to basement for me, and sure enough, I hear her yell up, “whoa, there’s a toilet down here!” Still fascinating after all these years.
A special, creepy toilet like this one couldn’t just be ignored. I knew I had to do something with it. Something decorative, maybe add a bit of color. I do have an inner Martha Stewart, you know. This was no regular toilet. It was a throne befitting not just for any king, but for…The King:
The Throne. I meant to get some Hoodoo Santeria candles to place around it too, but then I thought that might be in bad taste. As though the rest of it isn’t already. And before you go thinking I’m some kinda Elvis weirdo, I’m not. Sure my dream wedding is a boozy stop at an Elvis chapel in Vegas, and sure I have a Graceland snowglobe like anyone. I just like the hit songs and hip shaking. I like the popular culture idea of Elvis more than the actual music.
Let’s have a closer look at my set up:
The ever-classy toilet paper holder. The left-behind cardboard roll is archeological evidence that someone once used this toilet. It doesn’t work now, and doesn’t look like its worked in years. It sort of looks like a toilet at the end of the world.
Then there’s these gems.
When I came across these wooden photographs of Elvis at a Salvation Army, I couldn’t pass them up. These are possibly the worst photographs of Elvis Presley ever. Ever. Poor man is bloated, sick, and looks constipated. These would look great hanging in a divey Mexican restaurant, or a bathroom, places we’ve all felt the same as The King in these photographs. Places where you feel the pain. That someone thought it would be a great idea to reproduce these photos on laquered wood just blows my mind. I fell in love.
I bet you’ve got your heart set on getting a closer look at the toilet from the end of world. Well well well, The Pizza does not disappoint. I lifted up the toilet seat to peer inside, to see what horrors lie dormant beneath. I did for you, and I did it with my bare hands. No gloves. No barrier between my skin and the toilet. I. AM. HARDCORE. The following images are vile. But before we get to the inside, let’s just have a look at what’s holding the toilet seat together:
Holy shit, yikes. What the hell is that rope? I guess it’s there so that the previous user didn’t slip and slide when they sat down on the toilet. Coincidentally, it’s the same rope the Boston Strangler used on his victims in the 1962. I think.
Now to lift up the seat….
Where to begin? The disturbing ring? The fossilized mold? The cracked and chipping seat held on by dryrotting rope?
Well, that’s it. Here I am, all these years later, still excitedly showing people toilets. I guess you could say I’ve a call. Herr God, Herr Lucifer.
Oh, and more thing guys….