The Shelf

A quick disclaimer:  I, Josh, have hijacked this blog to offer up a few words on poop.   And while I know there are a myriad of reasons for a casual reader of the Curti Abroad to turn away, to close the browser, to “check back next week”, I am undeterred.   The sickly sweet stench of truth must be told.

But for those who don’t deign to discuss a deuce, who refuse to reflect on their refuse, who flinch from feces, scatter from scat, evade excretion, and cringe when they crap.  You may go.  I forgive your squeamish guts and offer you this as a parting gift.

Sidebar: check out that paragraph.  I’m the Dr. Seuss of shit.

But for those still reading, I like the cut of your jib.  You’re a good sport and you can continue to be my friend. 

Now follow me on a plunge into the toilet bowl and stand aghast as I introduce you to the horror that is: The Shelf.

It is a common misconception that the Europeans are the global leaders in the bathroom arts.   And while it cannot be denied that the bidet exudes old world sophistication as it blasts water into your ass, the design of a European toilet has not evolved far from shitting into a trough.

Behold

I’m sure you look at this wonderful rendition of The Shelf, and think, “Oh, that doesn’t look so bad.  The hole is just a little smaller, and in a strange place.”  Come on over to Germany then.  Take a dump in my bathroom.  And see if I have any sympathy for your stinky tears.

Now, the entire concept of the toilet is to put as much distance between you and your poop as possible.  Suck it down a pipe and send it far far away.  Which is all fine and well once the job has been finished.  But this leaves the restless and fretful moments while you are still firmly planted on the seat, hovering above the fine mess you created.  It is during this time, as we all know, that shit gets real.

A barrier is needed.  American toilet engineers cunningly employed the already existing evacuation system to solve this problem, rounding the bottom of the bowl and simply allowing the water level to rise and form a pool.  Malign not this hellish fishbowl, for it has saved your nose unspeakable trauma.  Only a level five stench can permeate the watery grave.  The European Shelf grants you no such protection.  It’s just you and it.  Like a naked guy sitting next to you in a sauna.  Awkward and frightening.

And we all know that shit rolls downhill but there is no such luck here, friend.  The Shelf provides a broad flat landing site, like a fine slate billiard table.  And as a twisted bonus, The Shelf sits at a regulation depth of four inches.  Story problem time - you eat a burrito and drink three cups of coffee.  Solve for x.  

I will spare you any descriptions of the scent of fresh moist shit however we must spend a moment on residue.  Upon flushing, The Shelf does issue a shotgun blast of water but this has little impact on dry porcelain.  Stains abound.  And though I have not yet seen it, I am convinced that this powerful water jet could launch a turd beyond The Shelf’s gravitational pull.  I hope to never glimpse that horror.

So never make the mistake of thinking that this is just a magical land of beer gardens, half timbered homes, castles, museums, and incredible labor laws.  There is a toll to be paid and it is collected daily, right in your own home.