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VigoTheCarpathian

History

Member for
3 years 1 week
Gender: 
Male
Age: 
31 years old
Post Count: 
2

No shortage of words comes to

No shortage of words comes to mind when I think of the commode at Solas/Lenox Hotel. Neo-classical. Elegant. Inspired. The paramount of posh potties, the Louvre of loos.

True to its 18th century Parisian roots, this privy is a positive pleasure palace for traditional purists of washroom refinement. Indeed, every inch of this latrinalia-free latrine sparks so brilliantly that I felt helplessly under-dressed for the occasion. The work of washroom pioneers Frank Lloyd Wright [innovator of the hanging wall toilet] and Austrian Friedensreich Hundertwasser is evident. I felt as if I were an overwhelming offense defiling the sartorial prestige of this particular powder-room. Dumbstruck and humbled by this bedazzled spectacle, I finished cleaning a bit of graisse de porc off the lapels of my saxxon silk, and left speechless. Bravo.
VigoTheCarpathian Male, 31 years old.
Boston, Massachusetts
On February 12, 2014, 3:59 pm
What I Did in Here: Admired

I entered without hesitation,

I entered without hesitation, delusional and naive. Instantly, I was confronted with the grotesque reality of the situation. A pungent odour of unflushed fecal fodder sent me into shock, my mind went blank with amnesia until a fellow gastro-pioneer offered to call an ambulance. I declined politely. he warned me of the scene ahead with pure terror flashing in his eyes and quickly left [without washing his hands]. I pulled myself together and continued further into the mysterious dense green fog, my intrepid courage quickly disappearing as I studied the ancient-seeming cave art scrolled on the wall in Sharpie. Fearful phrases hastily disheartened me. ‘Savages!’ thought I. I nearly turned back. At one point, while slipping and sloshing blindly through the dark cavernous commode, I noticed my shoe laces, untied, were being dragged sadly through the moist layer of yellow filament on the ground. I grieved. In front of me now were the urinals, trough style, classic thin stainless steel, a dismal throw-back to the utilitarian art movement of Stalinist Russia. I eyed them strangely, something was odd about this scene. I braved a closer look. Urinal cakes. Standard five gallon dispense rate. Classic single-pronged flush lever. Supra-structural flushometer mechanism. All seemed in order. An excessive green grime spoiled the effect of the grout facade on the tile backsplash, but this is expected. I looked closer still. Yes, there it was. The abnormality, camouflaged under the most despicable but unavoidable detritus of defecatory dwellings, became visible. Vomit, in the urinal, multicolored, with undigested materials bobbing lucidly in what appeared to be a tomato based bile. My inquisitive, albeit neotenous nasal capacities were simultaneously piqued by the fragrance of half-digested gruyere, resulting in the immediate and involuntary self destruction of
my olfactory systems. After this point, I remember nothing. The world became dark to me. I woke up outside, after vigorous efforts by paramedics to rescusitate me.

VigoTheCarpathian Male, 31 years old.
Boston, Massachusetts
On February 12, 2014, 3:54 pm
What I Did in Here: Became dispirited and ultimately fled