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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
« When in Doubt, Pull a Fever Out! | Main | Can I Go Back to Bed Now? »
I've found myself in a few situations recently that have made me stop and wonder, 'Who's the damned weirdo here? Me? Or that guy?' And frankly, there's no way I can make that call. So I'm putting it to you, the impartial observer: who's the douchebag here?
(Hey, hey, hey -- no answering until after you read the scenarios, there, sparky. Don't get ahead of yourself, calling 'douchebag!' all over the place. Keep it in your pants, sailor.)
I played volleyball this week on a team with a couple of people I'd never met before. When I got there, the team was refereeing another game, and I swore an old friend of mine was working the net. Until he took the whistle out of his mouth, and it became clearly obvious that it wasn't him. Whistle in, spitting image. (No pun intended, smartass.) Whistle out, some strange guy.
So does that reflect poorly on my friend, that he looks like random guys, but only when they're blowing on little plastic doodads? Or am I the douchebag, for thinking about it in those terms? And using the terms 'random guys' and 'blowing' in the same sentence. And dropping 'doodads' in the middle of that description.
Damn. Score one for me. I kinda gave it away at the end there, huh? Bitches.
I was in the bathroom at work today, minding my own business on the toilet.
(No, not 'minding my business', either, jackhole -- just minding my own business. Not everything is a euphemism around here, you know. Most things. But not all, dammit.)
After a couple of minutes, a guy walked into the bathroom and sat down in the stall next to mine. It was all right for a bit, but then he tried striking up a conversation! The nerve! The pervy nerve!
So, I ask you -- was he the douchebag there, for interrupting my privacy with his attempt at small talk? Or somehow was I at fault, for keeping quiet and pretending not to hear his repeated attempts to chit chat?
I mean, honestly, what else could I have done? I'm not equipped to deal with that situation. And who starts freaking conversations with, 'Hey, buddy, can I borrow some toilet paper?', anyway? Whatever happened to 'Hello'?
What? Oh. Right. That's me again, isn't it. Well, poop.
(Okay, that time I meant the pun. Ain't I a stinker?
Heh. I could keep this up for hours.
But I won't. A little dribble of bathroom humor goes a long way. And I think I've shaken it more than twice already. Proverbially speaking. Moving on.)
There's this girl in my office that I always thought was really tall.
But recently, I realized that she's not really all that tall. She just has enormous boobs. Which I noticed a long time ago, of course -- you've got to get up pretty damned early in the morning to sneak a pair of towering tatas past me, folks. But I always thought she was tall, too. Apparently, I'd been blinded by her breasticle bling, and imagined her with height she doesn't really have.
So, the question is... aw, screw it. This one's me. All me. I can't even make a case for myself. I'm a douchebag. And Laetitia Casta* must be, like, nine feet tall. Next!
I just spent the better part of an hour working this crap into an entry, editing it, and posting it. For no good reason, and possibly at the expense of sweet, beautiful, pillow-drooling sleep that I could be having right now.
But you -- you, now, we're talking about -- just read the whole damned thing. And that's three minutes or so of your life that you'll never have back, see?
So it begs the question -- who's worse off in this situation -- me, for writing this nonsense, or you, for allowing it into your head like this? See, I ask you -- who's the real douchebag here?
Wha? Me?! Dammit! Why am I always the douchebag? Poopstain!
Screw this, then -- I'm goin' to bed. What kind of douchebag thought of this stupid game, anyway? Oh. Shit. Never mind. Good night, then. *sigh*
* (Image linked from the Laetitia Casta picture pages at SuperiorPics.com. In case you were wondering. Or horny. Or both.)
That random flushing is also known as a 'courtesy flush'. My father used to go by the bathroom and yell, "COURTESY FLUSH PULEEZE!"
It gives the turds less 'airtime' and has the added side affect of covering the sound of any truly horrendous blow outs.
Noises like that are not supposed to come from women.
LOL Well, I'm having a sick day and need entertaining mindless reading so your post worked perfectly. That's my excuse anyway :-)
About the t.p. sharing....you know....that Seinfeld episode...where Elaine got mad because a woman in th e next stall wouldn't spare a square??? See...you're supposed to share. You don't have to debate the topic (LOL) just next time fire some t.p. at him and ignore him after that ;-)
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Ok, when I read this:
'I've found myself in a few situations recently that have made me stop and wonder, 'Who's the damned weirdo here? Me? Or that guy?''
I immediately thought to myself, 'OH MY GOD, He's gonna post about ME!' And I thought but you hardly know me, how can you pass judgement so fast? and then I thought maybe, just maybe, i'm a little paranoid.
BTW, women have conversation in the bathroom to cover any random sound effects going on. I have an observation on this too. Seems some women sit in there and just randomly flush for no apparent reason. And they're still sitting on the seat not even finished yet. I know, because the flush sounds slightly muffled. like there's a silencer on it or something. I don't know why they do this. Is it to get rid of offending smells quicker? and if they aren't finished, then what's the point? another one's just going to come along. And if it's to cover up some sort of noise, well... ever think you hear a huge sigh in the middle of a roaring waterfall? We all do it, just go ahead, fart already.