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We saw a late night showing of Green Lantern last night. (Unfortunately it was not very good. Amongst a few nitpicky things, I thought the biggest problem was it looked low budget – that doesn't bode well for a $200 million dollar Super! Summer! Blockbuster!) But I’m not sitting down amongst 7 tonnes of unfolded laundry and eminent homelessness to review GL. No, I have something more important to tell you. The story of how I almost died in the theatre bathroom.

Insert Aside – I went to use a bathroom in Victoria late Saturday night, and it was in the basement of a boutique hotel attached to the restaurant where we were being too loud. I walked into the bathroom, deserted, and this is what I saw.

USSR toilet.JPG

Why? Who? Spleeeeeeg? That last word is the sound my pee made as it echoed off the beautifully tapestried and marbled walls. If you have an incredible budget for your hotel, how much money do you put into your bathroom? This place was all “You know what, twin beds, berber carpeting and basic cable will be just fine, LET’S F-CKING TALK ABOUT THESE PUBLIC FOYER BATHROOMS.”

Anyways. (I often pronounce this Enn-ee-wess. I also still find Borat jokes funny. So there’s that.) Last night. 9:50 show of GL. Afterwards, I have to go pee. (I always have to pee after a movie. This means I always miss the crucial first conversations the boys have about the movie. Every time. I come running, panting, up to the group outside as someone says, “Yes, I totally agree. Now that we’re all done talking about the plot, favourite scenes, amazing performances, the soundtrack and that plot twist that blew our minds, let’s go our separate ways to go home and sleep.”)

There was nobody else around. It was midnight on a Sunday at the movie theatre. There were tumbleweeds clotting around my sneakers, comprised of stale popcorn, the napkin you spit your gum into, and the 25 of 30 M&M’s somebody dumped on the ground, with an under the breath "f-ck", while trying to open the kryptonite plastic packaging “carefully.”

One stall had an Out of Order sign on it so I went to the one beside it. I pulled down my tights and started to squat and release and OHMYF-CKGOD. On the floor, spilling over from the stall to the left of me, the one clearly marked Don’t Come In, was a pile of clothes pooled on a pair of shoes. And it suddenly smelled very bad. Like hot vagina. Girls, you know what I’m talking about. Your gym underwear. Boys, if you’ve ever been laid in the backseat of a car in the summer, you know what I’m talking about. Pungent lady parts so heavy in the air, it was like menstrual spores covered my nose and face like chloroform and there was suddenly no oxygen in there.

And then I heard the breathing. Heavy and wet and low and at that very moment, half crouched, frozen in absolute terror, I almost died in fear. If I had poop in me, I would have pooped. I was DEAD CERTAIN a claw or machete was going to come flying out from under the stall. Or even worse a head, like, wearing a clown wig dripping in motor oil, was going to pop up over the stall. I would have screamed like a f-cking gazelle being ripped in half by two alligators and then died.

These Stephen King mashup thoughts stampeded through my head as I dropped my piss like a high powered hose nozzle into that toilet, wrapped six sheets of paper around my vibrating hand, wiped, hiked my tights up to my tits, and slammed open the door of my stall in approximately negative 3 seconds.

As I washed my hands and willed my heart to stop jackhammering around my chest, I looked in the mirror and told myself to calm the f-ck down. Another moviegoer came in to pee, followed by another and I realized the stall beside me wasn’t the out of order one, it was the next one down. And the poor girl in there was probably a husky employee changing her clothes while trying to insert a tampon. Or the clown from It. Either or. Man, sometimes having the imagination and courage of a six year old EATS IT.