Doctor Crappyhands and Chief Stalltalker
The weekly conference call drags on and on…very little of substance is accomplished yet we continue the interminable routine none the less. Meanwhile, deep within my abdomen the first and second cups of morning coffee are being processed by two innocuous masses of tissue and today, my kidneys are working overtime. The filtration of my blood to extract excess water, electrolytes and other stuff has been going on at a furious pace while I listen to the banal blathering of an aspiring middle-manager attempting to impress.
Brevity, son, is the soul of wit…it’s also fucking mandatory on a conference call…especially when I have to wee.
Finally it ends. I bound from my chair and naturally forget to remove my headset. The plug unseats from the phone and recoils back at me threatening to garrote me as it ensnares my neck. I curse and toss the infernal device on my desk and march toward the restroom with the purpose that can only be found in a man who’s bladder has expanded to roughly the size of Rhode Island.
That’s when things got weird.
Upon entering the beige-tiled stink studio my sinuses are assaulted with bleach vapors. The only time said noxious…not to mention caustic and toxic gas is welcome but hey, it beats the alternative right? My vision clears and I begin making my way to the bank of urinals as a stall door opens. It's a C-level Executive…
It’s always an awkward moment when you meet a member of the organization who is significantly senior to yourself in a decidedly “undignified” situation. There is silent exchange of thoughts regarding the ultimate sameness between us despite the fact that his car costs almost as much as my house. Eye contact is made; a silent nod is exchanged as we pass. I turn toward the urinal and he…..hey wait a second…that dirty fucker didn’t wash his hands!!!!
I know the building is full of Wall Street Analysts today and he, the Chief Turdpalm Officer is on his way to the boardroom to meet with them. On one level I am amused, but on another I wonder how an outbreak of E. Coli might impact our stock price…
Back to the task “at hand” as I return my focus to avoiding backsplash on the front of my khakis I become aware that I am not in the Men's Room alone. The stall beside the bank of urinals is occupied. I’m filled with dread anticipating a change in atmospheric conditions as my auditory sensors, rather than olfactory are assaulted by the ringing of the occupants cell phone. I’m in the midst of a wee of a volume rivaling the outflow of the Grand Coulee Dam and he is astride the throne only a few feet away.
The phone rings again as I ponder the acoustics of the room…”it’s gotta be loud enough with the tile and all”
I hear him struggling to extract the phone from his pants bundled up around his ankles…”He wouldn’t” I ask to myself.
“Hello?”
“Oh geez he did.”
I’m astonished, horrified even, at the incredulity of the act to say nothing of the narcissism that tells the occupant that he is so important that he can’t wait to take the call until after depositing the detritus of last nights meal. The conversation continues regarding some impending meetings that I’ll no-doubt have to dial into. Amid my shock, my penchant for malicious behavior invades the moment.
I finish my “business” and zip up, make my way to the sink and wash up unlike Doctor Crappyhands who is now sharing coffee and scones in the boardroom. I grab a soap dispenser from the counter, return to the urinal and pull the handle toward me simultaneously jamming the bottle behind the handle locking it into a continuous and VERY loud perma-flush condition.
FWOOOSH-GURGGLE-GURGGLE!!-FWOOOSH-GURGGLE-GURGGLE!!
FWOOOSH-GURGGLE-GURGGLE!!-FWOOOSH-GURGGLE-GURGGLE!! FWOOOSH-GURGGLE-GURGGLE!!-FWOOOSH-GURGGLE-GURGGLE!!
The man on the throne pauses mid-sentence and stammers…”Hang on I….What?...Um….No I’m……Hey, I’ll hafta call you back.”
Justice served I returned to my desk. Another conference call and a tube of hand sanitizer awaits.
heh.
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