Doing Business in the Great Outdoors

outdoor urinal by singing in the rain

Why, yes. There is an outdoor urinal in the middle of the West End.

I guess London has added these lovely receptacles because the lovely drunken lads and lasses have taken to urinating in the streets while inebriated. Thus, instead of making them go inside, the wonderful city government has decided it’d be most appropriate to let them all urinate in the public eye. My oh my, it’s quite revolting and unfit for a princess to view if you ask me. But I guess better in there than on the streets, you know?

I must add that this urinal is located right by the Palace Theatre, the home of the broadway show Singin’ in the Rain. I guess the West End is making it rain in more ways than one on this corner.

outdoor urinal by singing in the rain 2


That awkward moment when the Princess SEES DEAD PEOPLE.

The toilet of the dead.

That’s right, loves. I was just walking through the ever so creepy Catacombs in Paris, France, when I discovered this little gem of a toilet. Composed of stone, rock, and a smidge of human bone, this little loo is perfect for those with excess flesh on their asses to protect them from the hard sting of rock piercing through your tush. Ever thought porcelain was too cold? Well, friends, you’ve felt nothing until you touched your arse on this thang, which has been buried multiple stories below ground for centuries. How do I know the temperature of said toilet, you might ask? Well, duh, children, I was about to go take a pee (because, like, who said I couldn’t?) and, well, my arse just became way too cold for me to continue sitting in comfort and I just had to jump up. Oh, and when I did this, I hit my head on a skull above, and well, it fell onto my noggin. I’m quite concussed, darlings. And I think that skull is probably quite concussed as well, since it kind of broke and whatnot. Thus, I ran away and hope to the heavens that I shall not be haunted forever. I guess the Princess of Porcelain is also a Catacomb Killer. Watch yourselves, loves.

No Shit, Sherlock!


Damn, Sherlock, you artsy fartsy!

Here, here, here, is the very toilet that the great Sherlock Holmes used to use at 221B Baker St. in London, now a museum for all of our enjoyment. Look at that floral pattern! Sherlock had style. But he wasn’t as awesome at figuring out mysteries as you all think he was, since I solved his most amateur mystery of all time. Have a gander…

Anywho, you’re probably wondering how I ended up here and how I became an infinite better modern-day Sherlock. After trekking through the roads of London and waring out my poor royal feet (like, where’s my horse drawn carriage?!), I finally arrived at the home of everyone’s favorite detective. Let me say, it was pretty radical to get a little glimpse of some of his cases, which were plastered in glass frames to various walls in the house, but oh so frustrating that they always ended on a cliffhanger…like, I actually have to go read the books if I want to find out anything. And since I’m a princess, I could never lift a finger to do something so strenuous as reading, so looks like I shall be out of the know forever. Anywho, after perusing through all of Sherlock’s goodies, I decided to try to crack one case on my own so that way I wouldn’t have to, like, read or anything crappy like that. One case that I found in Sherlock’s bedroom described a woman who just could not figure out why her breath sucked so much. Okay, this was like seriously the lamest case ever, but the only one someone so empty headed as I could even fathom understanding. Anywho, the description went into how the woman’s breath, like, suddenly just started sucking. “Why does my breath smell like shit, Sherlock?!” she had exclaimed in the case explanation. In response, Sherlock made some vague reference to a bristly object, which he presumed was thrown into something made of porcelain, something that, well, contains shit. “ZOMG, PORCELAIN. THIS IS SO MY CALLING,” I exclaimed so enthusiastically in my noggin. So I bounded up the stairs, asked a house attendant where in the world the bathroom was, and came upon our little floral masterpiece, where I discovered a toothbrush floating in it, surrounded by, well, shit! I wanted to take a photo of those remnants, but decade-old shit smells pretty disgusting, and thus I just had to get the hell out of there. Smells like that are just not suited for a princess! My poo’s are much classier. Anywho, I told the house attendant about the mess and that I solved Sherlock’s most wretchedly difficult mystery, and she was like, “Oh-em-gee, how has no one noticed this?!” (Am I like the only person who has ever gone into a bathroom here?! Do people not enjoy looking at toilets?! Slash, really, Sherlock, you never finished solving the mystery?! Likeee, no shit, Sherlock (well actually, tons of shit here, Sherlock), the toothbrush was right there!) So the nice little attendant deemed me a hero for figuring out the long-unsolved mystery of why the woman’s breath flat out sucked. And then I snuck back into the bathroom, which now smelled of a darling lavender spray post clean-up (how royal!) and snapped a photo for your viewing pleasure. Isn’t it just royal?

It matches the toilet. No shit, Sherlock!

Peeing with the Queen!

Well, hello, my loves!

Today, I skipped on over to Buckingham Palace, where I had a tour of the state rooms and saw all of the Queen’s beautiful diamonds (ooooh, aaaah). The whole place was just magnificent, but the tour was very long, so at the end I just had to pee so badly. I headed to the garden in the back of the palace and into the shed-like bathroom (um hello, we’re in a PALACE!) to let myself loose, but when I opened one of the stall doors, someone was already squatting over the toilet, grunting like an overly obnoxious weightlifter. “Lock a door, would you?” I scoffed, and then the woman looked up in shock. IT WAS THE QUEEN. I WALKED IN ON THE QUEEN TAKING A DUMP. AND I JUST TOLD HER OFF. HOLY SHIT. HOLY ROYAL SHIT.

So after that moment of utter embarrassment, I walked away in awe and went to relieve myself in a stall that was actually vacant. Gotta say, the stall was pretty plain for someone of the Queen’s stature. What the hell was she doing crapping in here?

The lovely loo where the Queen gets to expel her waste on the daily.

When I was done, I headed out to wash my hands, and lo and behold, there’s a fucking five-woman security team surrounding the Queen. And of course all of them turn to glare at me when the Queen informs them that I’m the one who just told her highness off.

“It is vastly impolite to speak to Your Majesty in that manner!” one scolded me.

“Well, why the hell didn’t she lock the door, and what the hell was she doing in the bathroom of the commoners?!” (Okay, I’m a princess, but that’s beside the point.)

“You think our bathrooms actually work in the palace, you silly girl? Those are just for show,” the Queen interjected. “They’re 300 years old and clog with a drop of urine. It’s imperative that I do my business out here.” And with that, she exited in her stately manner, surrounded by her entourage.

The majestic sink where I exchanged words with the Queen and her entourage.

So today I learned the Buckingham Palace bathrooms don’t actually do jack shit, and I got to hang out in the actual bathroom with the Queen. I think I may actually be the shit.

Got Balls?

Bathrooms are supposed to be private. They’re supposed to be that coveted sanctuary where I can drop my pants and let it all out without any shame, moaning “AHHH” as the urine flows into my toilet’s porcelain confines. But this bathroom wasn’t like that. This one had a gigantic window behind the toilet. AND IT WAS WIDE OPEN.

I ended up in this facility – squashed into a corner at the top of a staircase – during a mid-afternoon snack at this amazing West End bakery with chocolate cheesecake suited for a princess. Needless to say, after all that goodness, the cake charged right through me, and I just had to go. So, I excused myself, headed to the powder room, and here I find it…the open window. I tried to close it, but the damn thing was stuck, so I hoped no one in the courtyard outside would notice me doing my business. I made it through the urination portion without a peep from anyone outside, but right as I was about to let the cake out of my arse, I felt something.


“CRAP! Sorry lady!” the kid screamed. Yeah, you arse, don’t you know to never hit a princess? GOD.

But anyway, though slightly concussed, I managed to finish shitting out my cake. After wiping and dressing, I went to go flush the toilet, but alas, the flush was nowhere to be found. FUCK. My shit was literally filling the toilet, too, so I seriously needed to get rid of it. I looked around, to no avail, so growing frustrated, I tilted my head back so I could let out a scream of frustration…and that’s when I noticed a piece of wire floating above, connected to a flushing apparatus with a beautiful face penned on it. MAGIC. I’D NEVER SEEN ONE OF THOSE BEFORE.

I tugged THAT shit, and down went MY shit. A royal flush. PIECE OF CAKE.




Ain’t it beautiful? God, the pee in the toilet is the perfect shade of gold. Only fitting for a princess.

I bet you’re wondering how all of that managed to get in there. Well, let me tell you! I did a little thang called a pub crawl in London the other night, and well…I went a little H.A.M. on the strawberry lime and wildberry ciders if you know what I mean. God, that shit is delicious. I seriously wish my parents gave me that stuff instead of juicy juice as a child. I mean, hell, a tipsy four-year-old is so much better than one that cries and annoys the shit of you all the time. But that’s not the point. So anyway, I had liiike 4 pints of this delicious goodness, and needless to say, I seriously had to pee. But, unfortunately, this pub with the lovely cider had NO BATHROOM. Can you believe they expect drunk people to not have to pee every 2.5 seconds? I know, total blasphemy. So, here I went, sitting in this pub, itching for more cider, but seriously needing a toilet. The cider wish did not come true, though, as the pub closed at 11:30 (London is weak), so I started the trek home, squirming and stumbling every step of the way. I even leaked a bit on the tube. Didn’t want to know that? OH WELL! Hope those plush seats didn’t absorb the wetness…that would suck for the poor chap who sat there next. But anyway, once I managed to stagger my way out of the underground and into my flat, I then had to climb seven floors in the elevator, where I jumped up and down in agony for what felt like nine years. As soon as that fucker got to my floor, I ran out, did an “I have to pee like a damn race horse” dance as I opened my flat, and ran into the bathroom. Unfortunately, some urine droppings scattered onto my panties and the floor as I couldn’t get my arse on the toilet seat in time, but like a true princess, I always do my best to aim my urine into its proper place, an effort resulting in most of it ending up within the porcelain confines of le toilet. BRAVO, PRINCESS. BRAVO.