An old poem I wrote:

Four Levels of Stains

On the first stop we will experience the unvarnished skin. The majestic tranquility of the smooth new surface, brilliantly reflecting the cold white light, casts a dim shadow on the ground below.

I feel a special bit of pride in the first object. Almost as if it's a holy grail, and my unclean hands aren't fit enough to even touch it.

The second stop on our tour begins at the next splendor object. Not as exquisite as the first, but still wonderful in its own right. The surface is lightly stained however, and doesn't sparkle quite as bright. Small stains are at the bottom, green and blue in color, creating a nice painting against the white backdrop.

This is my favorite to use. I feel a small sense of security and relaxation whenever I'm able to partake of its services.

The third stop is about 50% stained. Blue, green and brown mar the white surface. There are also small cuts, scratching the surface. It doesn't mirror the light quite as much, but it's still a little refractive.

I use this only when I need, only when my favorite is occupied, and in use. I feel a small twinge of discomfort whenever I step up, but if I need to, I will.

The last stop is by far the worst. Splotches of all color decorate the once white skin. Sitting here since the 1960's, being used by generations past, going in and out and never being cleaned. It also tends to smell late at night, when no one is around but me. The cold dull surface almost is evil with its grime and dirt.

I avoid this at all costs, never wanting to use it at all. The smells and looks disgust me in ways I could never imagine. I feel afraid, and so does everyone else.

R. Mutt

Urinals, have to love them.