Well, I was hoping to have something more… what’s the word? Meaningful? Um… nah. Enlightening? Hardly. You want ‘enlightening’, you’re in the wrong place, bub. How about ungross? Yeah. Something more ‘ungross’; that’s what I’d hoped for. That last post about the bathroom wasn’t exactly pleasant.
But, as luck would have it, I’ve got nothing else to talk about. So, back to the toilet we go. I’ll try to keep it clean this time. Cleaner, anyway.
So. Here’s the thing. I’ll tell you exactly what I told my wife, just after I’d come back from the men’s room at the reception we were at on Sunday night:
‘I’m not sure how to feel about this exactly, but three strange things have happened to me since I left for the bathroom. I can handle one, maybe two, without much problem. But three is just crazy.
First, when I got in there, on the back of the toilet, there was a single, small bite of dinner roll. Not doing anything, just sitting there. A bite of dinner roll. Weird thing number one.
Secondly… well, this is gonna take a little bit of explanation. So, you see, some boxer shorts come with a button in the front. And sometimes, when you’re… in there, doing things… the button comes undone.
Now, sometimes, if you ‘schlllllip’ things just right in and out of there, the button stays buttoned. And other times, there’s no button there at all. And still other times, you might just leave the button undone — if you’re feeling frisky, or living ‘la puba loca’.
But most of the time, that little button gets unbuttoned in all the hubbub, and you want to fasten everybody down there back up. But I’m not used to wearing dress shirts, which have their own set of buttons, of course.
All of which is to say that I almost — almost, dammit, but not quite! — I almost buttoned my outershirt to my underpants. Not quite. But almost. Weird thing number two.
And finally, just as I was washing up — drying my hands, actually — in this one-stall, one-person bathroom, I heard somebody trying the door handle. And immediately after: BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!!, really loud.
Well, I was pretty much done anyway, so I opened the door to see what kind of asshole was trying to pound the door down. And it was this snotty little kid, maybe ten or twelve years old. I gave him my best, ‘Where the fuck did they grow you, Elmo?’ look, but he didn’t even look at me. He just scurried past me and closed the door. Little dickhead.‘
So, there you go. A big wedding reception on Cape Cod, and the most interesting thing I came back with is the two minutes or so I spent in the can. Now, am I an incurable old romantic or what, folks? Yeah.Permalink | 1 Comment