By Hon. Susan T Parrot
This is Susan T Parrot, reporting as always from Washington D.C. — though today’s dispatch, regrettably, comes not from the marbled corridors of power, but from a far humbler perch: just outside public restroom in Bangor, Maine.
Before the headlines start flying, let me clarify: this was not a protest about bathroom equality. I am very supportive of equality — provided someone else files the legislation, hosts the fundraiser, and sends me a flattering talking points memo. No, this was not political. This was… logistical.
It all began innocently enough. I was in Maine, diligently doing what any concerned representative does when visiting their district: appearing in local media, attending ribbon cuttings, and generally dodging voters. The schedule was grueling. A lesser parrot would have buckled. I merely fluffed my feathers and carried on.
But even the most poised among us eventually fall prey to nature’s call. And so, in search of relief and perhaps a brief respite from reporters asking unapproved inconvenient questions, I glided gracefully toward the nearest restroom. That’s when things took a turn.
Two quaint wooden signs greeted me: “Lobsters” and “Buoys.”
Now, I’m a born and raised Maine bird. I’m an intellectual force in D.C. I can do this. I can figure out which bathroom to use. One thing I learned in D.C. is that when presented with two choices, one is Right and one is Wrong. Choose wisely.
So, “Lobsters,” I thought. Claws. Sharp. Rather aggressive. “Buoys,” on the other hand, bob peacefully and wear charming nautical stripes. Surely Buoys was the gentler, more refined option — and thus, obviously, the ladies’ room.
It was not.
The first clue came when I smelled the forty year old aftershave on the counter. Who remembers Pinaud Clubman? The second came when I spotted the man — mid-fluff — who stared at me as though I were the intruder. Which, technically, I was. I quickly averted my gaze, murmured a polite “Carry on, sir,” and proceeded directly to the nearest stall in a desperate attempt to maintain dignity. I was in too deep to turn back now.
However, let’s not gloss over the real issue here. The signage. How is one supposed to interpret “Buoys” and “Lobsters” while pressed for time, chased by voters and the press while dealing with severe bladder impatience? I later learned that in Maine vernacular, Buoys means boys.
Boys. Not bobbing nautical markers of grace and restraint. Boys.
This is absurd. In Washington, the bathrooms are labeled much clearer. “Senators” and “Representatives” and “Donors” and “Other.” But in Maine? You’re expected to be fluent in lobster-fisherman slang while crossing your legs and praying for relief?
Frankly, I find this very concerning. I plan to hold a bipartisan panel (in front of cameras, naturally) to address this issue immediately after I return. If I was confused, imagine the chaos for visiting dignitaries or other national figures who don’t spend their weekends reading Maine’s quaint coastal lexicon.
So, while this was not my proudest moment, let’s remember what’s important: I navigated the crisis with poise. And more importantly, I emerged more committed than ever to repeating this story for days on end until something else trends.
In closing, let me assure you this was merely a misunderstanding, not a movement. This is simply a testament to the fact that when nature calls, the sign on the door doesn’t really matter much.