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Can You Hold, Please? I’ve Got a Really Urgent Call on ‘Line Two’…

‘Unnnnnhhh.‘

And not in the fun, spanky way, either, people. I mean it in the brain-fried, piss-tired, shellshocked, wibbly way. ‘Unnnnhhhh.‘

I think I drooled on myself a little that time. Oh poop.

Anyway, I’m afraid I’m not sticking around too long tonight — I’ve been working, all day, all night, and into the wee hours of the morning, and it’s just about time for my beauty rest. Or ‘handsome rest’. Or, more appropriately in my case, my ‘eh, well at least he’s got an okay personality rest’. I’ll have to take it, I guess. I don’t see many alternatives, short of a shitload of expensive cosmetic surgery. And who’s got time for that? I got sleepin’ to do, dammit.

So, there’s not much of interest to write about from today. Everybody out there has got crappy meetings, tough work, technical issues, and enormous swollen asses from sitting at their desks all day — nobody wants to hear about mine. Or, in the ass case, even think about it very hard. Really, fight that mental image. Be strong, folks.

Of course, speaking of work — and something that nobody really wants to hear about — I had a really strange experience in the office bathroom last week.

(And no, this isn’t gonna be some sort of creepy ‘coming of age in a toilet stall’ sort of story. I mean, sure, to be fair, there was a rather large black man also involved… but it wasn’t like that, dude. There was no touching. And only a little bit of squealing. But I’ll get to that.)

So, without putting too fine a point on it, let’s just say that I was having a nice little sit-down in one of the two stalls in the rest room. And for the record, my trip wasn’t going to be a proverbial ‘quickie’. I forget the exact circumstances that brought me to that spot, but I’m pretty sure there were hot wings involved somewhere in the recent past. And possibly microwave burritos. And a beer or two. Suffice to say that I was in for the long haul — settling in for a long winter’s nap, as it were.

So I’m whiling away the time, counting tiles on the floor, letting my mind wander a bit. After a while, I realize I’m on my tiptoes, rather than flat-footed on the floor. Not that it’s important to the story or anything; I just thought it was odd — and I realized that I always do that on the john. I’m not sure why — it’s not really a ‘fight or flight’ moment, you know? I’m not sure what the tippytoes are all about, but I thought I should mention it. It’s just those sorts of intimate, personal insights into my world that set this place apart from other blogs, folks. You might as well start loving this shit now; it’s not gettin’ any better.

Okay, so crawling painfully toward the point — there I was, making tippytoed twosies, when the bathroom door opened.

(The bathroom door, dammit, not the stall door. I told you it wasn’t that kind of story. Now hush up and pay attention. Sicko.)

I heard someone walking in, and also heard him say something at the door. Probably wrapping up a conversation with someone out in the hallway, I figured, and got back down to bidness. I caught a glimpse of the guy outside my perch, then heard the stall door next to me open, and a belt jangling and a zipper working, and finally the distinctive pants-down-turn-around-ease-onto-the-seat shuffle. Pretty standard stuff — nothing to be alarmed about there. But then:

‘So, you goin’ down to your grandma’s house?‘

Oh, shit. It was the guy — right there, a couple of feet away, asking a question. What kind of a question, I didn’t quite know. What the hell did he mean? Does he know my grandmother somehow? Is ‘goin’ down to grandma’s house‘ some uber-hip euphemism for pinching off poopies that I should know about? Or maybe it’s a euphemism for something else… maybe this is gonna be ‘that‘ kind of story, after all. *gasp*

At that point, it became clear that I had a different kind of nightmare on my hands.

(Well, not literally on my hands, of course — this isn’t a pleasant story or anything, but I’m not gonna get all gross and shit. That’s not cool.)

Anyway, I soon figured out that the guy wasn’t talking to me, because he kept right on talking, and — trust me on this one — I wasn’t answering. I was in the poophaus, minding my own business, and some guy comes in asking after my granny? No. I didn’t say a word. I even stopped breathing for a little while there.

But it didn’t matter, because the guy was having a whole conversation with someone else. Someone else on the other end of a cell phone, as far as I could tell — I figured I’d give the guy the benefit of the doubt there. I suppose it’s just as likely that he came waltzing in there, muttering to himself about random imaginary grandmothers while locking himself into a bathroom stall… but I prefer not to think about that. That’s nasty. There’s not a roll of TP in the world big enough to wipe off the ick from where that line of reasoning leads. So let’s stick to the cell phone theory.

Of course, even then we’re treading in some pretty delicate territory. I mean, think about the person on the other end of that phone — he or she is getting a remote virtual tour of the inside of our office’s shitter, without so much as a warning or ‘look out!‘ or ‘you might want to turn your blender on for the next thirty seconds or so to drown out the noise I’m about to make‘.

Which would have been appropriate, frankly. Because this dude was clearly not a subscriber to the ‘silent but deadly’ policy of bathroom-going. Oh, no. Not he. Not even with a friend riding shotgun via telephone. He simply went in there, sat down, and started firing volleys, all the while chatting about grandma and weekend plans and who knows what else. I’d stopped listening by then — and only partially because of the horrific bowel-shaking backfires that were emanating from the seat next to mine. I simply couldn’t believe that the guy was having a conversation during all the fireworks. Hell, he had to raise his voice to be heard over the noise; I think I’d have just called back when I’d settled down a little. That’s what ‘redial’ is for, my man. No need to multitask. Relax, for chrissakes.

So, I wrapped up what I was doing, and got out of there post-haste. The very last thing I wanted at that point was to be hanging around when it was time for the guy to wipe. With one hand holding the phone, and the confined spaces of the stall there, anything could’ve happened. And who knows what the person on the other end of the line would’ve heard then. Something like a wind chime made out of rump roasts, slapping together in the breeze. You know, just for instance.

Anyway, that’s my rather disturbing story. I still don’t know how the conversation ended — I’m just glad the guy wasn’t talking to me, and that my grandmother could stay completely, safely, and mercifully out of the equation. She’s got delicate sensibilities, you know — I’m not sure her heart would’ve held up in a situation like that.

And now jeez, look at this — I’ve gone and written a whole damned post, after all. See what happens when you get me started? I’m not gonna be nearly as pretty as I ought to be tomorrow, with as little sleep as I’m gonna get. Ah, well. Always a duckling, never a bride, I suppose. Or… um, something like that. I think the lack of sleep is making me delirious — I’d better check out before my grandma and potty stories get mentioned in the same breath again. She might not get away unscathed next time. Later, peeps.