Thursday, March 15, 2007

Good Morning Buckethead

At the office we wear ID badges that have a picture on them. The badge is very similar to a drivers license. It hangs on a blue string. Some people wear the string around their neck and put the badge in their shirt pocket and others put the badge in their pants pocket and let the string hang down. Another camp tucks the string in their pants pocket and lets the badge hang down. The latter camp has a disturbing side effect that I personally find troubling.

I have never liked restrooms. I don't like anything about them. I don't like the name "restroom" or anything else about the function of the "room". Hatred...

I especially hate the stalls. I am using the word "hate" here to describe my feelings toward restroom stalls. I don't understand why the stalls are so close together. I don't understand why there are gaps in the doors. I don't understand why there are partial walls either. Why don't the stall walls go all the way down to the floor? I just don't understand. whatever. just imagine what else I have to say.

This morning I walked to the restroom that I determined has the least probability of having anyone else using it at the same time i am there. Unfortunately, when I walked into the restroom, all the stalls were full except the one closest to the urinals and directly across from the sinks and mirrors. This is the least desirable stall imaginable. I am sure that you are at least partially visible in the mirror through the gap in the door to anyone standing at the sink. Hatred...

I could not make the trip back to the second choice restroom in my current condition without an incident. I was a victim of circumstance and had to settled into the grievous stall. Once settle into position in the stall, I glanced down and saw it. horrible. The individual in the next stall was from the "tuck the string in the pants pocket with the badge hanging down" camp. To my horror, while in his seated position, his badge was laying face up on the stall floor with his picture looking directly up at me. His badge was in my stall. MY stall, mind you. The badge and I made direct eye contact. The horror. To make matters worse, it was my boss. He was glaring up at me from the stall floor with his stern look. It was man at his lowest.

My mind was racing. Does he recognize my shoes? Does he realize that I am looking at his badge and now we have this unmentionable embarrassing situation between us? I even had some outlandish thoughts like maybe he can actually see me through the picture on the badge and at this very moment he is looking at my scrotum. I covered my scrotum immediately. I was frozen on the stool with my own scrotum in my hand. Horrified. The circulation was being cut off to my legs from the uncomfortable position I was maintaining. If I got up and left first he would see me through the gap in the door. If he got up first he could see me in the reflection in the mirror. Our eyes could meet. Faaking gap. Faaking door.

There was only one thing to do. Bolt out of the stall avoiding the mirror and try to make the second choice restroom. If necessary, soil myself then go home and call in sick.

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