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Before we call the class to order and perform a few simple math problems for edification and enjoyment I want to share with you wonderful students what I consider to be one of the funniest words in the English language and that is commode.

Which ironically is exactly what this little math problem is all about.

However, before we launch into our little math problem, let’s have a brief history lesson.

EDITORS NOTE: Timmy put your pencil down and pay attention.

A buddy of mine was planning a vacation with he and his family recently to the Boston area, as in Boston Massachusetts. (That Boston)

At first, they were looking at renting a house for he and his family and it was at this point when I got involved or disturbed if you prefer. I didn’t get involved because I have some or any knowledge of the Boston area, on the contrary. I became involved (So to speak) when my buddy showed me what housing available to rent on-line.

The captions for the “Houses to Rent” read something like this…

“Charming New England Home sleeps eleven (11) with a kitchen, Wi-Fi, one bathroom”

ME: “Wait, what? Sleeps eleven people and there is only one crapper?”

Another advertisement caption stated proudly…..

“Lovely Bostonian Home with room for fourteen (14) to sleep comfortably, one bathroom…”

ME: “What the Hell…?”

EDITORS NOTE: Just FYI, I am NOT sleeping comfortably with fourteen damn people and one crapper in the house. Nope, not happening.

O’ Yeah and one other “little” thingy, none (as in none) of those houses had air conditioning either. Not a one of them.

To say I was disturbed by our conversation would be an understatement.

In fact, I was so disturbed by our conversation that day I went home that afternoon and did some research of my own on this issue. And do you know what I found?

Apparently, that’s a ‘thing” in the New England, Boston area, and although I couldn’t find any information to substantiate my theory, I am sure those people are getting “taxed by the flush” if you know what I mean.

That’s right kids, in Boston you can live in a mansion, but you only get one crapper and no air conditioning. Still I needed some confirmation that this wasn’t an aberration after all I have been suffering from PTSD (Post Tennessee Stress Disorder) for some time now.

So, I called a Marine buddy of mine that has lived in Boston most of his life.

Joe and his beautiful wife Liz raised four boys in a big ole house just outside of Boston, I was sure one phone call could clear the whole matter up, or so I thought.

One of my many character flaws, I am sad to admit is that often I dispense with formalities and get straight to the point. Actually, I blame the Marine Corps for that flaw, just so you know.

Case in point, I haven’t talked to Joe since before Christmas and do I ask about his boys or his lovely wife? No, I asked, “How many crappers you got in your house?”

I took Joe’s, “Ah what?” moment and readdressed the question.

“I get your Christmas card every year, with everybody standing in front of your big ole house decorated for Christmas and I know you and Liz raised four boys in that house, so how many crappers have you got in there?”

I shouldn’t have been surprised when I got the…

“Mike is everything ok, are you alright?”

Just so you know, I never give up…

“Joe, how many crappers do you have in your house?”

Joe stuttered a bit and said, “One, why….”

I couldn’t help but interrupt with “Are you kidding me!?!”

Looking back on it, I feel sorry for Joe, here I call out of the blue and all I have is questions about his crapper. So, it’s no wonder he continued to ask me…

“Are you alright, is everything ok?”

I told Joe I had to run when in fact I was stunned.

Here Joe had this big old mansion in the Boston suburbs with six rooms or something like that and they only had one crapper and no air conditioning either by the way.

I was mortified.

Well I wasn’t the only one that was “stunned”, as Joe related our “conversation” with his lovely wife Liz. She went back to college once the boys were out of the house and on their own and became a licensed clinical therapist. She called me a few hours later…

She was using her therapist voice when she called too…

“Mike, this is Liz I need to talk with you…”

Once I agreed to the conversation, she launched into “Why” I was so interested in toilets and the like and asked “IF” I had a fascination with “Bathroom Functions.”

I assured Liz that the only “fascination” I had with “bathroom functions” was getting to one fast enough after a night of ill prepared Mexican food on dollar Margarita night.

EDITORS NOTE: As you might imagine, Liz wasn’t interested in my humor at the moment as she told me not to “project”, which I can assume had nothing whatsoever to do with old 8mm dirty movies and a projector.

I was emphatic at this point …

“Liz don’t you understand, your one bathroom is like an Apollo Space Mission with NASA. One misstep and the whole mission is scrubbed. Let’s face it, you are one Batman action figure being flushed down the toilet before the whole damn show gets shut down in the house.”

Ignoring my earlier comment, she calmly gave me a brief history lesson on “Bostonian Homes” to include the Christmas Party they attended in “Back-Bay Boston” which was reiterated for not the last time was an “exclusive neighborhood.”

Liz spoke to me as if I was a confused child, describing the mansion that had some long winded name where they stayed for the Christmas Party. She described the elegant ball room, the expensive décor, and the fifty bedrooms…

I interrupted her by asking, “Fifty bedrooms? How many crappers did they have?”

A heavy sigh proceeded from Liz’s mouth when she said, “One, but…”

I interrupted her yet again with “Are you freaking kidding me? Let me guess it didn’t have air conditioning either and the only crapper was on the first floor am I right?”

Liz regained her composure, once again sounding like the leaned therapist
“Mike, in each room is a wash stand and a decorative chamber pot…”

I couldn’t help myself at this point in the conversation

“Liz let me ask you a question, “IF” I lived in a broken down single wide trailer in Nowhere Alabama with no air conditioning and I pooped on an old Folgers can next to the bed I would be white trash. But YOU People (“Yes” I used that word..) have looked down on us Southerners for over two hundred damn years and you do the same thing but you think you’re in high cotton.”

Fighting for control of the conversation, Therapist Liz maintaining her speaking to me like a child voice said, “Mike the chamber pots ate quite decorative and…”

Yep, I interrupted her again with, “Well Liz I can put My Little Pony stickers on the Folgers can and sprinkle it with glitter to pretty it up, but I am still pooping in a can in my bedroom.”

Her sigh grew heavier this time around as she asked, “have you ever read anything about what Sigmund Freud said about such fixations that you are apparently experiencing at the moment?”

Here we go….

“I don’t know anything about Sigmund, but his nephew Eddie Freud is playing second base for the Pirates this year and is batting .289”

With another heavy sigh of what can only be described as defeat, Liz the Therapist told me to take care of myself and promised to call me back some time later with some of her “colleagues”.

Now that the history lesson is over, let us get to the simple math problem we have before us.

I am not saying nor am I advocating that it should be “One Butt (Equals) One Toilet” But (No Pun intended) “IF” your own personal math equates to that, then wonderful for you.

But (I have now set my own personal record for using the word “but” in a story that to some degree is about “Butts”), let us be honest with one another here. When you have sixteen or fifty butts to one toilet, the math simply doesn’t add up. Throw in two sickly kids that ate too much candy and you got yourself a problem.

And might I add one other thing regarding the lack of air conditioning in the greater Boston area.

Having Swamp Butt doesn’t make the lack of appropriate number of facilities per sweaty butt any better.

Now that I think about it….

Maybe Paul Revere didn’t jump on his horse Nelly to warn people the British were coming after all.

Maybe (Just maybe) he was looking for a bathroom that wasn’t occupied.

Think about it….