Mermaid Culture Wars and Bathrooms
The Mermaid
The Mermaid had been activated.
It happened on Seabook.
This was how most activations happened now.
One minute a Mermaid was looking at a photograph of her new cousin' in law’s back splash and the next she had learned that restrooms were in danger.
They were A DANGER.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
RESTROOMS.
RESTROOMS.
RESTROOMS.
She had a restroom.
Her children had to use restrooms.
Her children were adults, but she had grandchildren. Sometimes they needed a sitter.
Her church had restrooms.
One. Two. Like the Great Good Neptune intended.
The Coral Barrels had restrooms.
One. Two. Like the Great Venus intended.
She had never previously considered any of these bathrooms endangered, but this was because she had not yet been INFORMED, by her political swim, Seahorse pastor, and Seabook Group.
Now she was INFORMED.
There were posts.
There were arrows.
There were circles around things.
There was a MERMIADEN speaking urgently from her cave.
There were capital letters.
There was apparently something happening in the Atlantic, all the way through the intercoastal waterways!
How could people sleep at night!!!
Oh, for conch's sake! We're trying, but you won't fucking shut up about bathrooms and have no brains when it comes to infrastructure, development, or the needs of modern society.
By Tuesday, she was ready.
And very INFORMED.NO NO YOU ARE NOT INFORMED you are activated with propaganda and serving the wrong master. You conch!
She did not know exactly what she was ready for, but preparedness was an important part of vigilance.
She had even acquired a conch.
Seabook said the conch was an ancient symbol of female vigilance. And the seaBOOK was all!
It wasn't.
She ignored her confusion.
The seaBOOK was on Seabook.
At 11:42 a.m., a mermaid entered the restroom.
The Activated Mermaid looked up.
Interesting.
The Mermaiden went into a stall with a shell.
Very interesting.
The Activated Mermaid washed her hands extremely slowly.
The toilet flushed.
She listened.
The Activated Mermaid remained at the sink.
An ordinary kind of mermaid emerged.
They looked at each other.
"Hi," said the Mermaiden.
The Activated Meroldmaid had not prepared for this.
She had prepared for Something To Happen.
Nothing happened.
Except she got on the Mermaiden's nerves.
The Mermaiden washed her hands.
Two hands.
Ten fingers.
Ordinary.
No one conching cared. Should they? I don't. We somehow managed to use restrooms for decades before some fish tank decided the potty could be turned into a political identity. Who benefits from making you this angry about a toilet? I am not attached to the little signs on the front. I want bathrooms clean, private, and civilized. Signs. There it is. Here is you. You conchs.
This was frustratingly normal.
Not the politics. The mermaiden in the potty.
The Activated Mermaid left.
No—RIGHT.
She went right.
Always right.
Left was the way of that Sea Witch with the octopussy behind.
Real conchy of you.
She would remain vigilant.
Of course. Conch it all up. Lets get conched.
Fortunately, Seabook had additional training materials.
Or posts.
Or REELS.
Reel 'em in, Mermen!
Soon there were Activated Mermaids "everywhere."
Truly, there were only four:
Jessie.
Sammy.
Jo.
And Karen.
But four mermaids with Seabook accounts and conchs could make quite a lot of noise.
They had LOTS OF FRIENDS ON SEABOOK!
One worked in a shop.
Another worked in a school.
One worked nearby as a janitor and developed an extraordinary professional interest in the comings and goings of women. But not in a gay way.
Karen had the markets.
Karen watched for signs.
Necklaces.
Stickers.
Haircuts.
Shoes.
Things she could report back to the SeaFace Group.
They had no badges.
No authority.
No training.
No shared definition of what they were looking for.
They had Seabook.
This was apparently enough.
They also had conchs.
When something appeared suspicious:
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
Short hair.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
Broad shoulders.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
Deep voice.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
A Mermaiden finally opened a stall door.
"Would you stop blowing that fucking thing? I'm trying to pee."
The Activated Mermaids studied shoulders.
Shoes.
Hair.
Height.
Voices.
Hips.
Faces.
They developed theories.
Someone in the distance yawned.
They became amateur anthropologists of the Mermaiden body despite possessing Meroldmaiden bodies themselves.
One had no uterus.
One had whiskers.
One had broad shoulders.
One had a belly that entered the lagoon several seconds before the rest of her.
Three had breasts that had abandoned their original assigned positions.
By their own emerging science, none of them could conclusively establish that they were mermaids.
Seacows? Man a tit tees?
They did not investigate this. They ignored it and mirrors.
They wore lots of pink and perfume and did their nails.
Seabook had not told them to.
The irony did not trouble them.
Irony had not appeared in their REELS.
Reel 'em in, mermen!
One afternoon an Activated Mermaid became suspicious of another Activated Mermaid.
She was tall.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
The second Activated Mermaid stared at the first.
She had a strong jaw.
BWOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Someone far away said, “turn down the damn racket!”
A third Mermaiden entered.
Both turned.
The Mermaiden stopped.
"What?"
Nobody answered.
She looked behind herself.
Nothing.
"Do you need something?"
"No," said the first Activated Mermaid.
"No," said the second.
The two Activated Mermaids looked at the newcomer.
Broad back.
Broad shoulders.
Wide midsection.
Boxy hips.
Only the pendulous breasts and bright hair suggested she was of the right persuasion to be there.
But those could be dragged.
Dredged.
Trolled.
"Okay."
She went to pee.
The two Activated Mermaids regarded each other carefully.
It was becoming difficult.
There were simply too many kinds of women.
Tall women.
Short women.
Broad women.
Narrow women.
Women with cropped hair.
Women with hairy chins.
Women with flat chests.
Women with enormous tits.
Women with deep voices.
Women wearing work boots.
Women with uteruses.
Women without uteruses.
Women who had never once in their lives considered whether they were performing Woman correctly while buying toilet paper at Coral Barrel.
The Activated Mermaids had accidentally discovered that sexual dimorphism was not a dress code.
This was extremely inconvenient.
Seabook had made the assignment sound much easier.
Jessie looked at Sammy.
Sammy looked at Jo.
Jo looked at Karen.
Karen looked at Jessie.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
BWOOOOOOOOOOOO.
BWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Nobody knew anymore who had conched whom.
Eventually another mermaid entered carrying a mop.
Everyone watched everyone.
Nobody peed.
Four conchs were raised.
Civilization stood trembling on the brink.
But not really. It was waiting for everyone to be taken by the next disaster.
Somewhere, a notification chimed.
All four mermaids dropped their conchs and reached for their latest sea cucumber phones.🥒
.
Author's Note: Are you bored of this? I’m certainly bored of it. I was unaware and unconcerned and this was maiden an issue. Ew. Over it. Like yesterdays fish. This story was inspired by personal experiences with people who brought America's manufactured bathroom culture war into ordinary interactions with me—sometimes repeatedly and sometimes when I was quite literally just trying to pee.
I don't know what posts they read, what groups they belonged to, or what motivated them. I know what they said and did. Bathrooms, voting, "perverts," biological sex, and who should pee where had somehow become things they felt compelled to discuss with me.
Honestly, as long as the pee is in the bowl and not beside it, I’m happy with most genders.
Political organizations (I won’t argue how much and who… but i suspect A LOT and BOTH SIDES) spent years turning bathrooms and human bodies into political issues so they could crawl up our wangs to be more important than they actually deserve to be.
There is a lot of shit not getting done, outside of the restrooms they are not cleaning and maintaining.
Meanwhile, I have worked in bars, restaurants, hotels, B&Bs, retail spaces, sandwich shops, public schools, churches, and libraries.
You know what public bathrooms actually need?
Toilet paper.
Changing tables.
Privacy.
Accessibility.
Regular professional cleaning.
And they need to stop being another miserable responsibility dumped onto the lowest-paid person in the building.
And it isn’t for housewives and retirees with part time county jobs to police and harass other part time employees over.
Bathrooms are infrastructure.
Build private, unisex toilet and changing spaces with floor-to-ceiling walls and locking doors. Put the sinks in a common area where appropriate. Stock them. Clean them. Maintain them.
There.
Bathroom problem solved without inspecting anybody's genitals.
We have actual problems in this world. I don't need strangers inspecting other strangers—or becoming publicly preoccupied with the anatomy of other people's children—on my behalf.
Put a wall around the toilet.
Put a door on the wall.
Put a lock on the door.
Wash your hands. PLEASE REFILL SOAP.
Please flush. PLEASE FIX FLUSHER.
And ladies, please GET A LIFE!
Bunch of conchs.
By Tuesday, she was ready.
And very INFORMED.
NO NO YOU ARE NOT INFORMED you are activated with propaganda and serving the wrong master. You conch!
She did not know exactly what she was ready for, but preparedness was an important part of vigilance.
She had even acquired a conch.
Seabook said the conch was an ancient symbol of female vigilance.
It wasn't.
But it was on Seabook.
At 11:42 a.m., a mermaid entered the restroom.
The Activated Mermaid looked up.
Interesting.
The Mermaiden went into a stall with a shell.
Very interesting.
The Activated Mermaid washed her hands extremely slowly.
The toilet flushed.
She listened.
The Activated Mermaid remained at the sink.
An ordinary kind of mermaid emerged.
They looked at each other.
"Hi," said the Mermaiden.
The Activated Meroldmaid had not prepared for this.
She had prepared for Something To Happen.
Nothing happened.
Except she got on the Mermaiden's nerves.
The Mermaiden washed her hands.
Two hands.
Ten fingers.
Ordinary.
No one conching cared. Should they? I don't. We had somehow managed to use restrooms for decades before some fish tank decided the potty could be made into political identity. Who benefits from making you this angry about a toilet? I am not attached to the little signs on the front. I want them clean, private, civilized. Signs. There it is. Here is you. You conchs!
This was frustratingly normal.
Not the politics. The mermaiden in the potty.
The Activated Mermaid left.
No—RIGHT.
She went right.
Always right.
Left was the way of that Sea Witch with the octopussy behind.
Real conchy of you.
She would remain vigilant.
Of course. Conch it all up. Lets get conched.
Fortunately, Seabook had additional training materials.
Or posts.
Or REELS.
Reel 'em in, Mermen!
Soon there were Activated Mermaids "everywhere."
Truly, there were only four:
Jessie.
Sammy.
Jo.
And Karen.
But four mermaids with Seabook accounts and conchs could make quite a lot of noise.
They had LOTS OF FRIENDS ON SEABOOK!
One worked in a shop.
Another worked in a school.
One worked nearby as a janitor and developed an extraordinary professional interest in the comings and goings of women. But not in a gay way.
Karen had the markets.
Karen watched for signs.
Necklaces.
Stickers.
Haircuts.
Shoes.
Things she could report back to the SeaFace Group.
They had no badges.
No authority.
No training.
No shared definition of what they were looking for.
They had Seabook.
This was apparently enough.
They also had conchs.
When something appeared suspicious:
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
Short hair.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
Broad shoulders.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
Deep voice.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
A Mermaiden finally opened a stall door.
"Would you stop blowing that fucking thing? I'm trying to pee."
The Activated Mermaids studied shoulders.
Shoes.
Hair.
Height.
Voices.
Hips.
Faces.
They developed theories.
Someone in the distance yawned.
They became amateur anthropologists of the Mermaiden body despite possessing Meroldmaiden bodies themselves.
One had no uterus.
One had whiskers.
One had broad shoulders.
One had a belly that entered the lagoon several seconds before the rest of her.
Three had breasts that had abandoned their original assigned positions.
By their own emerging science, none of them could conclusively establish that they were mermaids.
Seacows? Man a tit tees?
They did not investigate this. They ignored it and mirrors.
They wore lots of pink and perfume and did their nails.
Seabook had not told them to.
The irony did not trouble them.
Irony had not appeared in their REELS.
Reel 'em in, mermen!
One afternoon an Activated Mermaid became suspicious of another Activated Mermaid.
She was tall.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
The second Activated Mermaid stared at the first.
She had a strong jaw.
BWOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Someone far away said, “turn down the damn racket!”
A third Mermaiden entered.
Both turned.
The Mermaiden stopped.
"What?"
Nobody answered.
She looked behind herself.
Nothing.
"Do you need something?"
"No," said the first Activated Mermaid.
"No," said the second.
The two Activated Mermaids looked at the newcomer.
Broad back.
Broad shoulders.
Wide midsection.
Boxy hips.
Only the pendulous breasts and bright hair suggested she was of the right persuasion to be there.
But those could be dragged.
Dredged.
Trolled.
"Okay."
She went to pee.
The two Activated Mermaids regarded each other carefully.
It was becoming difficult.
There were simply too many kinds of women.
Tall women.
Short women.
Broad women.
Narrow women.
Women with cropped hair.
Women with hairy chins.
Women with flat chests.
Women with enormous tits.
Women with deep voices.
Women wearing work boots.
Women with uteruses.
Women without uteruses.
Women who had never once in their lives considered whether they were performing Woman correctly while buying toilet paper at Coral Barrel.
The Activated Mermaids had accidentally discovered that sexual dimorphism was not a dress code.
This was extremely inconvenient.
Seabook had made the assignment sound much easier.
Jessie looked at Sammy.
Sammy looked at Jo.
Jo looked at Karen.
Karen looked at Jessie.
BWOOOOOOOOOO.
BWOOOOOOOOOOOO.
BWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
Nobody knew anymore who had conched whom.
Eventually another mermaid entered carrying a mop.
Everyone watched everyone.
Nobody peed.
Four conchs were raised.
Civilization stood trembling on the brink.
But not really. It was waiting for everyone to be taken by the next disaster.
Somewhere, a notification chimed.
All four mermaids dropped their conchs and reached for their latest sea cucumber phones.🥒
.
Author's Note: Are you bored of this? I’m certainly bored of it. I was unaware and unconcerned and this was maiden an issue. Ew. Over it. Like yesterdays fish. This story was inspired by personal experiences with people who brought America's manufactured bathroom culture war into ordinary interactions with me—sometimes repeatedly and sometimes when I was quite literally just trying to pee.
I don't know what posts they read, what groups they belonged to, or what motivated them. I know what they said and did. Bathrooms, voting, "perverts," biological sex, and who should pee where had somehow become things they felt compelled to discuss with me.
Honestly, as long as the pee is in the bowl and not beside it, I’m happy with most genders.
Political organizations (I won’t argue how much and who… but i suspect A LOT and BOTH SIDES) spent years turning bathrooms and human bodies into political issues so they could crawl up our wangs to be more important than they actually deserve to be.
There is a lot of shit not getting done, outside of the restrooms they are not cleaning and maintaining.
Meanwhile, I have worked in bars, restaurants, hotels, B&Bs, retail spaces, sandwich shops, public schools, churches, and libraries.
You know what public bathrooms actually need?
Toilet paper.
Changing tables.
Privacy.
Accessibility.
Regular professional cleaning.
And they need to stop being another miserable responsibility dumped onto the lowest-paid person in the building.
And it isn’t for housewives and retirees with part time county jobs to police and harass other part time employees over.
Bathrooms are infrastructure.
Build private, unisex toilet and changing spaces with floor-to-ceiling walls and locking doors. Put the sinks in a common area where appropriate. Stock them. Clean them. Maintain them.
There.
Bathroom problem solved without inspecting anybody's genitals.
We have actual problems in this world. I don't need strangers inspecting other strangers—or becoming publicly preoccupied with the anatomy of other people's children—on my behalf.
Put a wall around the toilet.
Put a door on the wall.
Put a lock on the door.
Wash your hands. PLEASE REFILL SOAP.
Please flush. PLEASE FIX FLUSHER.
And ladies, please GET A LIFE!
Bunch of conchs.
Ommmm
man-a-tit-ties
Ommmm
