"Kadush, kadush, kaaadush," God, she's got pointy fingers, "This fucking thing won't work, Luc."
Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up! Stop pressing the damn record button and shut the fuck up. Patience is a virtue, right; life lessons: like sex is a disease, religion is an empty wallet, knowledge is an anxiety disorder, eating is a release, and shitting being the opposite of eating must be a . . . fill? No, no, start again, this is backwards, we are off track. Damn't she does this to me, fills my mind with, well, if it's being filled then I guess shit.
"Ha, well baby maybe you better stop pushing it so hard, I just bought that thing." Aka I'll hit you so hard you're wearing steak over both lids if you break my new toy. God, isn't that just the metaphor for our whole relationship; she keeps pressing record and all we get is empty space and time . . . and steak, for some reason room service won't stop bringing steak. A release from my wife, originally that's all this weekend was, watching this 22 year old little hard body, well it's turned into button pushing. How did Thursday turn into Saturday and where are my pants? How'd I end up here in a hotel room in Vegas staring at this patch of bleached blonde pubis while she fiddles with my "Sony record your sex;" leaving me flaccid as a pedophile in a nursing home. She says the cameras is an eager, albeit perhaps desperate, attempt to satisfy her Auteur cinematic needs. I say it's a gift for a little girl whose dad died on Christmas.
Let's say I won her number in a raffle the winning ticket: D-E-L-T-A 1751. A flight attendant more interested in tending than flight. Today's in flight movie "How Chelsea gets man in 1D off while serving stale Cheez-It's." She was my prize and Vegas her foolish handler. She said she liked pudding, that's all she'd share really. Pudding was usually chocolate Snack-o-pack's with crushed up vitamins, that's vicodin, percocets, oxy, synthamesc, drencrome, Moloko-plus, anything artificial really. I asked her about school and history was tapioca to vanilla cream, remember the crust that used to form at the top; there's a word for that; no its not "pudding skin," though Urbandictionary.com does define pudding skin as "the first lick of a vagina during cunnilingus." God did she love pudding skin. Science was frozen pudding (she usually got confused here; no change in state of matter; both pudding and pudding pop are solids my dear). Reading was "Chocolate Pudding: a how to." Gym was; well gym was all the places you could rub pudding on the human body keeping your heart rate under 100 bpm's.
"Je suis un petite fille," I have never heard this more in my life. You tell a girl your family roots are French Canadian and she assumes you shit brie. She's young though so I mess with her head, there's still time for her to be a mature contributing member of society if she could only wipe the layer of "I'm not with stupid, I am stupid" off her face. So its touch me here, lick me there, hit me way too hard under here (all in French); and I. . . . well, I have no idea what she's talking about so I sit there staring, pretending like French is my first language, and I hit her because I feel like it, I lick her because my tongue is salivating and she smells like orange shasta, and I touch her because I'm afraid I can't feel. Nothing she says makes sense and nothing we do is ever recorded because she can't press buttons and we don't work.
Sunday morning I glance over and she smells like motor oil, like a car that's been driven too hard. I think of Marie, and the children she's growing and I think of this young girl. I remember "Je suis un petite fille," and I think, Jesus 22 isn't that young, I owned three hotels and an airline when I was 22. So I lick her again, and she tastes like burnt rubber, I touch her and realize I can't feel, and I slap her to check if either one of us is alive. I come to the conclusion that she might be, but I definitely am not, and if she wakes up she may want breakfast. So I leave her a credit card that doesn't work, and I write her a note in someone else's handwriting about the physics of suicide from the Bellagio roof. I clean up my clothes, take a bite of old Filet Mignon and a box of dark chocolate pudding as a souvenir and I head for the door. The camera turns on from the corner of the room and finally starts to record, its response to touch two days too late, a metaphor wholly wasted. I leave the room and let it record, people will want to see the nothingness that occurred, years from now they'll want to know neither of us were really there. Vegas was an illusion; Vegas has fully faded from my memory.
-655321
Friday, July 11, 2008
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sentiments v. Syllables (Japanese Bonus Track)
Vegas still hasn’t quite faded from my memory. As I serve two-dollar ginger ale to the Asian men in first class, the two virginal boys prancing in the aisles of Delta Flight 1751 only excite images of masculine knights and their tight fitting unitards. Provoking me with their mushroom tips, these men look happy with their lives, with their ginger ale, while I am left stung by the sour looks of their detestation.
It was a Thursday night when Luc told me I looked pretty, but maybe that was because we were in the hotel bar. He talked to me about France, prehistoric elephants of the Midwestern plains, doing magic, and, to a lesser extent, about his wife, Marie. He also talked about eating my pussy, which was something new, something risqué, convenient, and in a rather depressing admission, essential. In his room he taught me French words, wore tight jeans, and exhibited a steady hand. On Friday morning, I awoke to a note from those steady hands. He wrote in all caps and thanked me.
That morning I ordered blueberry pancakes, charged them to his room, and felt almost nothing. Nothing except that little hint of nostalgia for the very recent past. I’ve found the trick is to try and not think about anything. Try for nothing, look for nothing, because the church of the subgenious is an order of scoffers and blasphemers, dedicated to total slack, delving into mockery science, sadofuturistics, megaphysics, scatalography, schizophreniatrics, morealism, sarcastrophy, cynisacreligion, apocolyptionomy, ESPectorationalism, hypno-pediatrics, subliminalism, satyriology, disto-utopianity, sardonicology, facetiouism, ridiculophagy, and miscellaneous theology.
By the afternoon I had sold the memoirs of my love life to a publisher. They are going to make a board game out of it and most likely nobody will ever pass go, nor will anyone ever collect two hundred dollars. The abrogation of my trip found myself in the airport, snacking on two chocolate chip cookies to pass the time. Remember, dénouement. Other French words: inconvenient, nonessential, etc. In the end I don’t want flowers, or spaceships, I don’t really want anything. I feel cold, like the ghost of someone who used to exist, but someone much happier than I, maybe someone like Marie. Vegas still hasn’t quite faded from my memory.
-mildredratched-
It was a Thursday night when Luc told me I looked pretty, but maybe that was because we were in the hotel bar. He talked to me about France, prehistoric elephants of the Midwestern plains, doing magic, and, to a lesser extent, about his wife, Marie. He also talked about eating my pussy, which was something new, something risqué, convenient, and in a rather depressing admission, essential. In his room he taught me French words, wore tight jeans, and exhibited a steady hand. On Friday morning, I awoke to a note from those steady hands. He wrote in all caps and thanked me.
That morning I ordered blueberry pancakes, charged them to his room, and felt almost nothing. Nothing except that little hint of nostalgia for the very recent past. I’ve found the trick is to try and not think about anything. Try for nothing, look for nothing, because the church of the subgenious is an order of scoffers and blasphemers, dedicated to total slack, delving into mockery science, sadofuturistics, megaphysics, scatalography, schizophreniatrics, morealism, sarcastrophy, cynisacreligion, apocolyptionomy, ESPectorationalism, hypno-pediatrics, subliminalism, satyriology, disto-utopianity, sardonicology, facetiouism, ridiculophagy, and miscellaneous theology.
By the afternoon I had sold the memoirs of my love life to a publisher. They are going to make a board game out of it and most likely nobody will ever pass go, nor will anyone ever collect two hundred dollars. The abrogation of my trip found myself in the airport, snacking on two chocolate chip cookies to pass the time. Remember, dénouement. Other French words: inconvenient, nonessential, etc. In the end I don’t want flowers, or spaceships, I don’t really want anything. I feel cold, like the ghost of someone who used to exist, but someone much happier than I, maybe someone like Marie. Vegas still hasn’t quite faded from my memory.
-mildredratched-
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
If it's not Christmas, Why the Hell am I Up?
A topical rant on a topic you mustn't know:
Do you ever just wanna fall asleep and only wake up on Christmas Day? Just get rid of your problems, the flies constantly buzzing through your daydreams, your seemingly tragic plight and stuff it all in for a hibernation of 364 days. Get rid of your cell phone, get rid of your computer, no such thing as email, no such thing as meetings, no such thing as appointments, no nagging neighbors or bill collectors. Your life is that one day; and you better make it worth it.
What’s perfect about Christmas is it’s the one day a year where everyone is an actor. You don’t have to be Brad Pitt to put a smile on your face and pretend your wife hasn’t gained five pounds every year for the last 15 years (yes that’s 75 rolly polly greasy pounds extra for you to love), "why no honey squeeze into that size 4 and stick that gigantic cantankerous mass in my face." You don’t have to be Tom Hanks to carve the family turkey and tell your son that you love his new boyfriend and feel perfectly comfortable with them culminating their relationship in your marital bed. And you don’t have to be Reese Witherspoon to give your husband a hand job while you flip through your Vogue magazine reading about how much "power the female hand has over the dick" and pretend it’s better than that ring you've been eyeing at Michaels Jewelers.
Imagine how rested you would feel if you slept every single day of the year except that one day; Christmas day. If you were born on this earth and all you knew was that one day a year; a day where people pretend they like shitty cake to curb negative relationships, they get loaded off sugary concoctions to deal with assholes that happen to share blood with them, and smiles are pasted in cyberspace forever recorded as digital memories. 75 days of life tops probably, that's all you could really hope for or expect. 75 days of an illusion that it’s all ok, that your parents don’t disprove of your lifestyle, that without a raise you won't post a youtube video titled "Larry destroys his office with a Louisville Slugger because he is underpaid and under appreciated", that the angel of death will strike every house except your white picketed piece of paradise. 75 days of covering up that you hate meatloaf, that you never loved your wife, that dad goes to the strip club because boners aren’t free, and that you can't stand to look at yourself naked in the mirror anymore because your balls/tits (lets really open this up) have become passengers rather than drivers in that failing body of yours. Imagine that; every day is red and green jello shots, every day reeks of pine and dead bird, every day is Starbucks seasonal menu (Caramel Apple Cider ahhhhhhh), every day there’s a more advanced I-pod under the tree with Steve Jobs briefing you on advances expected for Christmas number 33.
I’ll tell you what you would think, you’d probably think that this world is pretty decent, and that people are good at keeping secrets, and that society is overall pretty friendly and righteous, and that you wish you could be awake for the other 364 days of the year that you miss. But you know what you’d be wrong, because the only day, the only single day a year when families are civil and life is moral and upholds the values we are taught to look for, (if not a fake personification of a societal norm),is the one day you are awake a year and it’s all F U C K I N G fake.
-655321
Do you ever just wanna fall asleep and only wake up on Christmas Day? Just get rid of your problems, the flies constantly buzzing through your daydreams, your seemingly tragic plight and stuff it all in for a hibernation of 364 days. Get rid of your cell phone, get rid of your computer, no such thing as email, no such thing as meetings, no such thing as appointments, no nagging neighbors or bill collectors. Your life is that one day; and you better make it worth it.
What’s perfect about Christmas is it’s the one day a year where everyone is an actor. You don’t have to be Brad Pitt to put a smile on your face and pretend your wife hasn’t gained five pounds every year for the last 15 years (yes that’s 75 rolly polly greasy pounds extra for you to love), "why no honey squeeze into that size 4 and stick that gigantic cantankerous mass in my face." You don’t have to be Tom Hanks to carve the family turkey and tell your son that you love his new boyfriend and feel perfectly comfortable with them culminating their relationship in your marital bed. And you don’t have to be Reese Witherspoon to give your husband a hand job while you flip through your Vogue magazine reading about how much "power the female hand has over the dick" and pretend it’s better than that ring you've been eyeing at Michaels Jewelers.
Imagine how rested you would feel if you slept every single day of the year except that one day; Christmas day. If you were born on this earth and all you knew was that one day a year; a day where people pretend they like shitty cake to curb negative relationships, they get loaded off sugary concoctions to deal with assholes that happen to share blood with them, and smiles are pasted in cyberspace forever recorded as digital memories. 75 days of life tops probably, that's all you could really hope for or expect. 75 days of an illusion that it’s all ok, that your parents don’t disprove of your lifestyle, that without a raise you won't post a youtube video titled "Larry destroys his office with a Louisville Slugger because he is underpaid and under appreciated", that the angel of death will strike every house except your white picketed piece of paradise. 75 days of covering up that you hate meatloaf, that you never loved your wife, that dad goes to the strip club because boners aren’t free, and that you can't stand to look at yourself naked in the mirror anymore because your balls/tits (lets really open this up) have become passengers rather than drivers in that failing body of yours. Imagine that; every day is red and green jello shots, every day reeks of pine and dead bird, every day is Starbucks seasonal menu (Caramel Apple Cider ahhhhhhh), every day there’s a more advanced I-pod under the tree with Steve Jobs briefing you on advances expected for Christmas number 33.
I’ll tell you what you would think, you’d probably think that this world is pretty decent, and that people are good at keeping secrets, and that society is overall pretty friendly and righteous, and that you wish you could be awake for the other 364 days of the year that you miss. But you know what you’d be wrong, because the only day, the only single day a year when families are civil and life is moral and upholds the values we are taught to look for, (if not a fake personification of a societal norm),is the one day you are awake a year and it’s all F U C K I N G fake.
-655321
Sunday, June 15, 2008
FAWDER'S DAY
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.”
-655321
"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.”
-655321
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."
-655321
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."
-655321
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