"To flush or not to flush, apparently this is a cause for great diliberation among public bathroom goers"

There aren’t many things in this world that I don’t like. I mean, I figure God puts things on this earth for a reason, and even if something seems bad, it most likely could always be worse. But I must admit there are a few things I find beyond the realms of deal able, and though it may be petty I am about to own up to it anyway.
I don’t like public restrooms.
Where should I begin. Firstly, they smell, and seeing that it’s a public restroom one can’t walk in hold your nose and go, “Eww, man, who did that!” So, you have to walk bravely through, pretend the smell isn’t killing you with ever breath you take, and do anything not to make the slightest face to possibly offend one of the leaving patrons who could very well have been a cause to the scent.
Then finding a stall, I mean if there is a line, you kind of don’t have a choice, you have to take the first one available, or Nancy, Freda, and Pacco will all glare at you if you hold up the line because your too choosey for the stall, and when someone stays in a stall too long, then finally comes out the rest of the line has that silent, “Haha, I’m glad it’s not me who has to go in there” smirk.
Now if there is no line you can choose your restroom, but that usually ends up like shopping at a garage sale for something like socks—they will all inevitably have some sort of issue, so you have to tuff it up, find the best one and march in, but sometimes the experiences in finding the most suitable stall can be detrimental to say the least. Now when I was potty trained my mother taught me to flush, but I don’t think this is common among Americans, because I cannot express to you how many times I have seen things left in toilets that just shouldn’t have been.
Or you have the “wet floor syndrome,” when for some unknown reason the floors are covered in water, or some type of liquid, and toilet paper particles are mixed in making a white slur, this being most common at truck stop or beach restrooms.
Then there are the minor details, like a stall that has no toilet paper, and you are left calling out “Hey, Mary pass the toilet paper down here,” or no seat coverings, or the “unfriendly neighbor,” a.k.a. a loud stranger next to you…and the list just continues, such as if the door doesn’t have a lock, then the whole time you are trying to hold it, and it’s swaying back and forth, as you experience at least five close calls. And of coarse the dreaded button, that shiny metal circle that is infected with who knows what diseases and germs, located midway up the wall, that either has to be, heaven forbid touched, or karate kicked in such a fashion that it would most likely end with half of you in the toilet and your head severally damaged in some close to fatal way.
I would get into portapottes, but the fact that I have already spent over 500 words ranting on this less then unimportant subject already makes this piece pitiful, and well pointless, so I will stop there, leaving the rest up to you.