✿❀ My Hawaiian Restroom Experience ❀✿

I know that sounds like the title of a perverted erotic fiction short story, but it isn’t.

If you’re anything like me, you’re probably going to read this post before clicking on Part 1, but you really shouldn’t. Not only is the second part of this review considerably less entertaining—but it also makes damn near zero sense if you haven’t read the first part.

Then again, if you’re actually anything like me, your entire life doesn’t make a whole lot of sense anyway. You probably eke out your underwhelming existence in a reckless, disoriented state of apathy and bleak nihilism, awaiting some intangible release from the monotonous dirge of your existential dread.

So, whatever. Go ahead and continue reading without any context. Do it at your own peril, though.

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Aloha. When you last read this stupid blog, I had just finished mumbling something about my meal at the Café O’Lei in Kihei—where the stairs are sadistic, the panko is plenty, and the 37 locked Wi-Fi networks make a mockery of your touristy, TikTok-addicted ass.

The café also has a mascot who appears to be a Hawaiian dancer in the middle of some hardcore Hula. At least I think that’s a Hula move. I mean, she’s definitely not dabbing. And if she is, she’s doing it way wrong.

Li’l Ms. Lady O’Lei appears in various locations throughout the restaurant—including a very large painting hanging proudly and prominently over the kitchen.

It’s a pretty stylish piece of work, but I also feel like it’s a tad bit jarring all by itself. She looks kind of lonely. Maybe she’d do well with some sort of dance partner?

Now that we’ve explored every nook, cranny, crevice and cavity—it’s time to check out the crapper.

The men’s room for the Café O’Lei is located just outside the back entrance of the restaurant. As it turns out, this latrine is technically a communal facility for use by patrons of the other businesses here. _{Wait, what? There are other businesses here? I guess they don’t have free public WiFi either.}

Since it’s a shared shitter, entry into the restroom requires a key, which the previous user hands off to me like some shameful olympic torch.

As far as public bathroom keys go, this one is…well—it’s attached to a spatula.

Okay, so it’s not disgusting or anything. It’s just kind of gross. I’m not really a big fan of bathroom keys that make it necessary to wash my hands again after leaving the restaurant.

I can’t help but wonder how this ended up being the key. Did one of the cooks get busted bringing it into the bathroom? Here’s hoping that the only mixing and spreading this utensil did was in a bowl meant for food.

According to the signage on the door, being equipped with this bacterial wand of disease spatula-key officially makes me “Authorized Personnel,” which is kind of cool I guess.

But to be honest, being considered a bathroom VIP doesn’t really make me feel very badass. Especially when the signage is written in the ACME font from Looney Tunes.

Like, please. You wouldn’t put your security guards in T-shirts with this kind of lettering, would you? It just wouldn’t really give off the right vibe.

I turn the key, open the door, and make a pee bee-line over to the urinal: a high-efficiency, 1-gpf KOHLER model with its trademark AccuFlush™ technology. (I’m pretty sure it’s the Bardon version, which is built with antimicrobial ceramic!)

While the Kohler is undoubtedly clean and fully functional, I’m a little sceptical that this black, particle-board urinal-divider is going to effectively block my business from potential snoops at the sink. It’s quite thin and flimsy.

I mean the divider is thin and flimsy. Shut up. You know what I meant.

I also can’t imagine why anyone would want to lean on a potty partition board. Who do they think is hanging out in here? The Fonz?

Feeling fully relieved, I now draw my attention to the general outline of the latrine and learn that it’s a spacious room with sufficient lighting and a neutral, earth-tone colour scheme. The presentation here is very to the point, and has a utilitarian feel that’s perfect for it’s purpose.

It also doesn’t smell too awful. I’m picking up tones of industrial strength floor cleaner, or potentially even pine-sol. Very non-offensive. The garbage can seems to have been recently replenished with a fresh bag, which is admirable for a lunch rush visit.

Bathroom Stall Report.

The door swings open with ease, and the lock is in working order. There’s enough room inside here for an assortment of various illegal activities, depending on what kind of criminal you are. Plus, there’s a bonus trash can for your crapping convenience. (Just don’t crap inside it.)

The SCOTT Jumbo Coreless bath tissue dispenser (Model H-7196) is fully stocked and rolls out T.P. with notable grace and ease. Additionally, there is a ledge for you to place your personal belongings while you empty your bowels.

Since you won’t be doing any meaningful toilet-scrolling without a Wi-Fi connection, this makes a perfect platform to safely place your phone if you’re looking to catch some Cholera on your Hawaiian vacation.

There aren’t any toilet seat covers, which is a let down. However, it does look like someone has taken the initiative and placed a designated roll on the ledge to compensate. Or maybe it’s for someone with short arms who can’t reach the dispenser?

At any rate, I’m sure there’s nothing unhygienic about a foul, rank roll of publicly shared T.P. that’s been resting on its side next to a lidless toilet. Wipe away. Maybe you can blow your nose afterwards, too.

Probably a good time to wash up.

Considering my forehead alone has excreted approximately 3 ice cream pails of sweat since making the trek over to the Café O’Lei, I’ve kind of been dreading the ghastly sight that is sure to greet me in the mirror when I finally decide to fix my damp, droopy, depressing hair.

But I guess there isn’t a mirror. This is a major inconvenience for someone as vain as I am. Have you ever tried using your cell-phone as a mirror?

Besides, what if I had, like, an emergency? You know, like, an appearance-related emergency of…some sort. What then?! This doesn’t look too good, guys. (I’m not just talking about my reflection in this shitty phone, either.)

Shucks. And I was so excited to try out my new facial cleanser.

Speaking of beauty fluids—this hand soap is looking plentiful, practical, and low-key delicious.

It’s as if a magical Nesquik cow stopped by and gifted the bathroom a bounty of her pure, pink unpasteurized udder juice. Mmm.

They even have a drip tray so none goes to waste. It’s a little dirty, but I don’t actually plan on drinking from it or anything—like some sick fucks just might do.

The sink is surprisingly clean. My only complaint lies with this Chicago Push Faucet, which provides about a thimble’s worth of water for each time I press the damn thing down.

After 10 pushes, 4 Twinkle Twinkle’s and about 7 curse words, my hands are finally clean and crud free. Time to dry off and dip out of here.

Good thing this restroom has a Georgia Pacific Dispenser (Model #54338). The push paddle design hardly ever gives me problems, and it’s pretty satisfying to violently pump out ridiculous quantities of paper towel at impressive speed in a wasteful, indulgent manner. As expected, the GP does not disappoint.

But what the heck is with this signage? As a customer, I hate being asked favours. Especially when the favour involves having to tamper with toilet tanks that don’t exist. I’m done with touching gross stuff. I have to draw the line somewhere—and that line can be found at the filthy restroom key fob. (It’s not like they have a plunger in here anyway.)

I’m not doing your plumbing for you. If the toilet clogs and begins to overflow due to some mouth-breathing bastard’s bathroom negligence, the best I can do is bring it to your attention when I return the key. Don’t worry, it’ll be dry.

Fortunately, I’m leaving here dry today as well.

Panko for reading. I mean, thank you for reading.

(…or Alamo, or Malaho or whatever the fuck. Time to get off this island.)

I don’t really have any strong, significant concluding statements to make about the restroom at the Café O’Lei. All things considered—it was clean, well stocked, and had minimal stank. Certainly acceptable by anyone’s standards, let alone the standards of some loser who reviews restrooms and spends 4 hours editing Lego men into photos.

If there was one thing I’d ask the proprietors of this potty to reflect on after reading this review, it’d be about investing in a mirror. _{Get it? Eh? Reflect on?}

Thanks crew, you’ve got quite the Café here! Even if I didn’t end up getting (O’) Lei’d.

Smell / Cleanliness	4/5
Functionality	3.5/5
Accessibility	3.5/5
Inventory	5/5
Aesthetics	3/5

Toilet Paper Rating: 3.8 / 5