Sunday, June 15, 2008


Or The Call:
"Ring ring ring," hmmm an unknown number, could be that offer to play point guard for the Celtics I've been waiting for or that call from Mastercard asking me if I approved the rental of “The Fuck It List” on my account. . . . or more than likely it’s the doctor calling to tell me I should really think about wearing condoms next time I go to Southeast, Asia. What the hell pick it up, live a little; the cookie you ate last night told you to take more chances. . . . . in bed!!! (haha, that game you know, fortune cookies, sex. . . humor is wasted on you).

“Hello,” nothing, "Helloo?” breathing, “Hello, Yellowwww. . . . yellow card," breathing “Holaa, como estas es esta una llamada de broma?” nothing “Hell hoe, hellooooo, elbow, hi, hiya there, goodentaug. . . . ok I’m going to hang up now.” And then a voice that sounds little older than a fetus, excited like mom just bought an ice cream cone for the whole soccer team, like its Sunday and we’re going to Chuck E Cheese; “Hewwo. . .. . .hi dis is Costa, Costa Smith, happy fawder's day” Hmmm how many kids have this number, besides the ones trapped in the basement I keep for creative inspiration?

“Hello there kid, thanks for the call, do I know you?” Is this some kind of miserable right wing charitable service call to encourage all those sperm bank fathers to keep better track of their seed? Is this just a nice little kid using the numbers from his chocolate stained sudoku book to call random’s with this happy sentiment?

“Yea dis is Costa. . . what are you doing?”, “No no this is Costa, Costa is my last name. . . who is this?” God this is getting creepy; here come the death threats and the grumblings of REDRUM from the back of his throat, please God don’t let this demon child have my address.

“I just got back from the park wid mommy and gramma, we took grampa for dinner and then to see Kung Fu Panda for fathers day.” “That sounds like a nice day, Costa, it’s Costa right? Your grandfather probably would have been happy with a bottle of scotch and a piss that didn’t interrupt him in the middle of the night, but a solid day I’d say. Why did you call me though, should I know you. . .are we related, like a little cousin I forgot about?” Maybe he’s harmless; he could be one of those invasive lonely conversationalists that shares too much. You know the woman or man who scrolls through the phone book to let you know that they tried suicide two days ago but their razor was dull; Or that they just bought a new Magic Bullet from QVC and the peanut butter shakes are amazing; kinda like mom when she felt the need to tell everyone about the divorce- the worst was when she made the Payless clerk cry.

“Well Mommy said for my 5th birfday, I could tawk to my daddy. . . so I waited for fawders day because my birfday is the 3rd of June and I got a new math game for the compuder and my daddy’s phone numba and a picture of him, and a whistle for swim pwactice and a cap gun, and thwee magic books, and the Back to da Future box set.” Damn, this kids cool, a little long winded and dillusional but surely a winner among the list of shithead kids polluting this world.

“That’s awesome Costa, great story, great gifts. . .great. . .just great, listen I have to go though, it was nice speaking; you should call that old man of yours and tell him all this.” Please just hang up, if I was 15 years younger I would invite you over to my birthday and you could invite me over to your house for a swim and tell me your mom likes it when you and your friends go swimming naked; and then we would take our bathing suits off and your mom could take pictures and ten years down the line get arrested for kiddie porn, and we could bond about it years later over beers after college graduation. But it's not in the cards and I gotta go.

“But that’s what I’m doing daddy, I’m calling my daddy on fawders day. Mommy said to say tequila, donkey show, Mexico and the day after pill that she didn’t take and you would remember. Happy Fawders Day.”


Thursday, June 5, 2008

Bathroom Spy

The Toilet Trenches:
It's 9 am on a Thursday morning and you stumble into your work bathroom for a post-coffee piss. You close your eyes and hum the Cure song stuck in your head as you listen to the faucet drip and attempt to control your urine stream to the beat of both; (not an unusual morning feat for you). Let it drip, stop, retract, drip, drip, retract, jiggle, drip, flush; "Boys Don't Cry" remember? Dress shoes shuffle against tile floor and you see two black wingtips disappear beneath a stall door. What was that creature? What is this unidentified cockroach penetrating my morning haze?

This is what we in the work world call a culprit, a victim of unspoken bathroom blackmail and bribery. It is not a crime to use the work bathroom to export goods on the no.2 train to Empty Stomach City, in fact we all must exercise this right from time to time. But be prepared for bathroom mutiny; if you are identified as the culprit you mine as well flush your respect down with that horrid turd.

Ever notice how that Gucci toed criminal will not, positively not come out of his stall of ambiguity until you have "5 second rule" left the bathroom? C'mon people; I know it destroys the office myth that you are indeed a superhero but we all know you shit. It is just one of those things in our society and especially in the workplace; admitting you shit is like admitting you can blow bubble gum with your asshole, or that you fantasize about slumber parties with 2nd grade spelling bee finalists. So what do we do instead? We pretend "hey I'm a janitor I'm fixing the toilet paper mechanism" jiggle jiggle "be out in a sec". . . see proof, and then as soon as the bathroom is exited we leap from our stall, (where we probably completed the hardest task we will attempt all day), and we walk on over to the sink, otherwise known as home base. From that point on if Tim from business affairs comes in we can say "Ahhh Tim, nice day, Lakers or Celtics huh? Ohh that smell I don't know just peeing, just peeing in here, that's all Im actually capable of, don't know if you know this but I was born with coloneferus.. . .. it basically means I am incapable of excreting feces, huh, yea it means I cant take a crap." Why the lie, why the embarrassment, oh terrified one?

I don't necessarily get it; why this balance of power changes when we know our colleagues take a mean one every now and again; but hey “shitstalking” is what gets some of us our first raise. "I saw you shit;” the strongest words ever uttered in the work place, you mine as well give that person your wife, house, kids, and car because they own you.

Here is what I ask you, yes you I saw you in there yesterday; brown Paul Smiths and the grey Calvin Klein dress pants humming the first two versus of "Walking on Sunshine": Why wait until someone else has left the restroom, we know you shit, we know your not in that stall researching satellite orbits for NASA. "Hi my name is Bob, I'm a shitter. . . .I shat last night I shat this morning, and I'm going to go shit again right now!" Is that so hard? Don’t let the man take the power from you.

So what do I suggest and what do I do when I notice fashion clad employee #1 resting on the throne, how do I handle this situation? Well first off I must admit in all honesty I don't shit, never. . . .never have, never will I'm like the guy with coloneferus. But my game "shitstalking;" I want to see you sweat, I stay in that bathroom as long as possible while someone is in that stall, I want to catch them on the job; I am the reason for your IBS. I am a bathroom spy trying to infiltrate your hidden identity. "I can see your shoes, and your pants, as soon as I go back to my desk I will identify you!!" I will know who the shitter is, the pooper, the plopper, the turd philanthropist. Perhaps you say I am interrupting your quiet time, I say your the cause of the skip in my morning piss track. A shuffle of feet and I'm on you, ready to barter for a raise. It is not nearly as unacceptable to know someone who pees; my sister pees, my mother pees, Jim from accounting pees big deal, I saw Mother Theresa pee. . . granted she did it while floating on a cloud of recycled bibles. But to know someone that sits on the thrown and embarks on that most holy of journey's that’s something else. Just once I want to go in there and have a guy come out and go "high five buddy, I just shat!" and then I'll say something like, "Yea let's wash our hands first.. . . . and I know you shat, I've been watching you."