Is Reading on the Toilet Still a Thing?

There was a time in America when entering someone's bathroom meant being granted access to their private literary collection. Nobody discussed this. Nobody questioned it. You simply walked into the restroom, locked the door, sat down, and discovered that your host had thoughtfully provided enough reading material to survive a minor gastrointestinal emergency.

There might be a Reader's Digest, perhaps an ancient National Geographic, maybe a deep-sea fishing magazine, and, if you were particularly fortunate, one of those little books containing "101 hilarious jokes", specifically selected for people using the toilet. Apparently, twenty years ago we believed bowel movements required entertainment programming.

The concept was remarkably straightforward. You'd visit Uncle Larry's house, excuse yourself, and discover a paperback sitting directly on top of the toilet tank. You'd pick it up. Think about that... You'd pick it up! Not a book you owned. Not a freshly sanitized book. The community bathroom book. You had absolutely no idea who read pages 37 through 52 before you. Nobody asked. There was an unwritten social agreement prohibiting further investigation. You simply opened the book and began perusing.

And the jokes were always spectacularly terrible: "What do you call a cow with no legs?" "Ground beef!" Fantastic. Thank God somebody preserved that for future generations. Had you continued through all 101 jokes, there's a strong possibility you'd have begun praying for constipation simply so you'd have an excuse to leave.

But bathroom literature wasn't limited to comedy. There were magazines... so many magazines. And for reasons nobody has ever satisfactorily explained, bathroom magazines were never current. You could visit someone's house in 2008 and find a Sports Illustrated from 1996. Suddenly you're sitting there thinking, "Huh. I wonder how this Michael Jordan comeback thing is going to work out."

Occasionally you'd discover a National Geographic permanently opened to a fourteen-page investigation of irrigation techniques in Uzbekistan. Nobody remembered purchasing it. Nobody had finished reading it. Nobody would ever throw it away. At some point, it ceased to be a magazine and became part of the bathroom's structural integrity. If the house were sold, I'm fairly certain the magazine legally had to remain.

Then smartphones arrived. And almost overnight, the American bathroom library disappeared. There was no ceremony, no final issue, no candlelight vigil outside the headquarters of "101 Jokes for the John". We simply stopped needing reading material because every human being began entering the bathroom carrying the accumulated knowledge of civilization in their pocket.

Which sounds impressive until you consider what we're actually doing with it. Our ancestors read magazines. We watch videos of raccoons stealing cat food, and people dancing to obscure club songs. We've somehow gone backward.

The smartphone has fundamentally changed bathroom culture. Once upon a time, you'd enter, accomplish your objective, perhaps learn something about Uzbekistan, and leave. Today you can disappear for forty-five minutes. Eventually somebody knocks. "Are you okay?"... "Yeah!"... You're perfectly fine. You've simply spent the last twenty minutes watching a man in Wisconsin restore a lawn mower manufactured in 1973. You don't own a lawn mower. You don't live in Wisconsin. You have absolutely no idea how you arrived at that video. Nevertheless, it was in your recommended so you're emotionally invested now.

But perhaps we've been focusing too much on private bathrooms, because public restrooms provide an entirely different form of entertainment. For instance, who designed bathroom stall doors? More specifically, who decided they needed a gap large enough to permit accidental eye contact? You're sitting there. Someone walks past. For one horrifying fraction of a second... 👀 Contact. Neither person acknowledges it. You can't! Civilization depends upon pretending it never happened.

Then there's the toilet seat that moves. You sit down. SKRRRRT. The entire seat shifts half an inch sideways. Nothing tests your faith in modern engineering quite like suddenly discovering your toilet has possible suspension. You freeze. Apparently, you've boarded a ride.

And somewhere nearby is always The Stall. You know the one. You open the door. You look inside. You immediately close the door. No investigation. No witnesses. No questions. Whatever occurred in there is now beyond the jurisdiction of local authorities. That stall requires federal assistance and a hostage negotiator.

Public restroom technology hasn't necessarily improved matters. Consider the automatic faucet. The faucet has one job: detect hands. You place your hands underneath it. Nothing. You move them forward. Nothing. Backward. Nothing. Now you're performing "jazz hands" in front of the mirror and still nothing.

You begin performing increasingly elaborate gestures like you're attempting to communicate with an alien spacecraft. Suddenly... WATER! Wonderful! You move approximately six millimeters. Off. Eventually another person walks into the restroom and sees you performing interpretive dance over a sink. You both understand.

Then comes the hand dryer. Modern hand dryers appear to have been engineered using technology originally developed for jet propulsion. You put your hands underneath - WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH! The machine produces enough wind to alter regional weather patterns. Forty-five seconds later, your hands are still wet. All you've accomplished is relocating the water onto your pants... Excellent!

Then there is perhaps the most aggressive piece of bathroom technology ever invented: the automatic toilet. Nobody trusts an automatic toilet. You're sitting peacefully when the sensor suddenly decides, "We're done here." PPPSSHHHHHH!! EXCUSE ME. We had not reached a consensus. I did not authorize that. Sometimes you lean forward slightly, and it flushes. You lean backward. It flushes again. By the third flush, you're beginning to feel personally criticized. "I'M WORKING ON IT."

And despite all this technological progress, some bathroom problems remain unchanged. For example: one-ply toilet paper. Who invented this? This isn't toilet paper. It's tracing paper. Nobody manufactures one-ply because they care about the environment. One-ply exists because somewhere, sometime, somebody was settling a score. Nothing says funny like giving yourself an accidental rectum exam.

And few moments in adult life produce genuine terror quite like reaching for the toilet paper roll and discovering cardboard. Not low. Not almost empty. Cardboard! Suddenly your entire life has changed. Five seconds ago you had plans. Now you have a survival situation. You begin inventorying available resources like an astronaut aboard a damaged spacecraft. Tissues? No. Paper towels? Too far. Spare roll? Maybe underneath the sink. Can you reach it? This is how yoga was invented.

Which brings us back to those ridiculous old bathroom books. Maybe we judged them too harshly. Sure, the jokes were awful. Sure, the magazines were twelve years old. Sure, nobody wanted to think too carefully about how many previous visitors had handled them. But there was something strangely peaceful about them.

The bathroom may have been one of the last places where human beings were willing to be bored for five minutes. No notifications. No breaking news. No emails. No group texts. Nobody sending you a video titled "YOU WON'T BELIEVE WHAT THIS BEAR DID NEXT". Just you, a locked door, and a paperback written by somebody named Morty containing 101 jokes about chickens, doctors, traveling salesmen, and cows with no legs. Maybe Morty understood something we've forgotten.

Today, we enter the exact same room carrying devices capable of accessing nearly every book ever written, communicating instantly with people across the planet, viewing satellite imagery of Earth, translating languages, studying history and exploring virtually the entirety of recorded human knowledge. And what do we do? We watch a golden retriever refuse to get out of somebody's swimming pool. For eighteen minutes.

Perhaps progress isn't always a straight line. Maybe someday bathroom readers will return. Perhaps future generations will rediscover the pleasure of leaving a little paperback on the toilet tank. If that happens, I hope The Pompous Post is ready. We could publish our own. Not 101 jokes. Absolutely not. By joke 37, people would be begging us to let them leave. Instead, maybe just one page. One sentence. Something meaningful. Something worthy of contemplation during those quiet moments when a person finds themselves temporarily separated from the chaos of modern civilization.

Perhaps: "Whoever invented the bathroom stall door gap should be required to explain himself/herself while making direct eye contact with the committee."

Then close the book. Wash your hands. And for the love of God... leave the magazine about Uzbekistan where you found it. It belongs to the house!