Commode: (n) a concealed chamber pot
Unexpectedly and much to my surprise, during the news cycle recently, “shithole” became a point of discussion.
Even though I find myself to be a person of some insight, and maybe even able to offer a prediction from time to time, “shithole” sideswiped me.
Since most people don’t take baths anymore, and were unwilling to call it the “shower room,” relegating that to sporting facilities, we do need a name for that very important sanctuary for our natural release.
Truthfully, lots of folks are repulsed by the word “toilet.”
“Potty,” aside from being extraordinarily pretentious, also is now tied to a potty-mouth, which means you are susceptible to using all sorts of foul language and profanity.
Yet even though it has become part of the commentating on television, “shithole” is a little strong for me. It’s the kind of thing a bully would say to you when you walked out of the restroom in highschool, to make you feel uncomfortable.
“How’d it go in the shithole?!”
Of course, there is no appropriate response to the question: “The shithole was fine!” Or, “I don’t call it a shithole. I call it a commode.”
No, I have never referred to the porcelain fixture in the water closet as either a loo or a shithole.
I’m actually without terminology.
Sometimes I try variants–to see if there might be a favored word among my friends. But I’m still confused at how to express for a significant part of my journey.
I neither “take a shit,” nor do I “poop.” Nor have I done any “loaf pinching.”
I have referred to it as porcelain, but not a throne.
And of all the terms, “dump,” for me, is the least appealing.
I think the secret code we developed as children still has some universal possibility:
Simply hold up one finger–or two–to announce one’s intention.