Potty Time

Word of advice: if you are an exceptionally dark form of African American and feel compelled to dress in head-to-toe black, I would appreciate it if you could manage to cross the street at night in the designated cross walk. I’m not sure if you know this, but unless you’re wearing a belt made of reflective traffic cones, I will not be able to spot you until my headlights reflect off your spinner chain and by that time I’m forced to slam on my breaks to keep from a vehicular manslaughter suit.  He or she probably already contacted 1-800-411-PAIN or ASK GARY and pimp walking through the middle of the road at night is merely part of the scheme to bitch slap me with my own wallet. If skeezy lawyers didn’t make it so profitable to exploit injury, I would’ve long ago mowed down Lil Jon and the Eastside Boyz posted up in the median, taking turns pushing each other in front of moving vehicles. About a month ago, we actually had a bus flatten some moron that decided to camouflage in a black hoodie and play chicken with a public transportation operator. We don’t play that shit here, son. Talk to the tire.

I’m not certain as to the rationale behind people in the neighboring stalls of restrooms feeling the obligation to strike up casual conversation, but it needs to cease. I already possess a severe case of stage fright without some weirdo interrupting my concentration to tell me my shoes are cute. Not to mention once the faceless hob-goblin in the adjacent stall speaks, the image of a little reptilian eyeball peering through the crack watching me tinkle haunts me to the point that I’d rather discontinue with my futile attempts to piss in peace and run the risk of either my bladder exploding or developing a severe case of kidney stones. FACT: Awkward silences in restrooms don’t exist. So don’t muddy the pee party meditation and go around telling strangers in the bathroom that your child is an honor student just because you judge it appropriate to create sound at all times. More people need to take hold of the notion that silence is not awkward—silence is golden. I don’t need you to comment on every billboard, tree or mile marker we bypass during a car ride to know that you’re seated next to me. Your mouth breathing usually indicates that you’re present and accounted for. I despise small talk, unless it’s the type of small talking involving conversations with a small person because by nature midgets are exponentially more interesting than average-sized humans. Especially little people that can do tricks… like juggle or reach the top shelf. Case and point: if a midget talked to me in the restroom, I would develop a lifelong companion. If a standard human speaks to me in the restroom, I will ball up a wad of TP, dip it in the toilet and throw it into their stall, shouting: “heads up chatty cathy.” Then I will giggle and go tinkle in the men’s restroom, where inhabitants are too frightened of being dubbed homosexual to speak to another while peeing, which is the way it should be.

I also find it extremely disconcerting when people are clearly calling me while on the pot. It makes me uncomfortable to shoot the shit with you while you shoot a shit. And when I ask “are you really calling me in the middle of expelling some bodily fluid,” please don’t play me for a fool and tell me the flushing sound was the television. Do you really need to multitask to the point that you’re forced to make phone calls during your bathroom breaks? Are you really that busy? I’ll go ahead and answer for you: you are absolutely not that busy. Steve Jobs isn’t that busy. The worst is strangers in public restrooms talking on the phone next to you. I don’t need to listen to you make a lady doctor appointment because you urine looks like that shit in glo sticks. You can wait five minutes, WASH the germs off of your hands and then whip out your smart phone. You think it’s okay to play Angry Birds while defecating, then you go shake some innocent bystander’s hand with your feces fingers and they wind up waking up with an irate case of poop eye in a room full of jerkoffs frantically snapping pictures before she even has the chance to see that the hullabaloo is a direct result of the reptilian creature-of-the-deep eyeball that apprehended the spot where an exquisite blue lagoon once sat. (That definitely did NOT happen to me, I am speaking purely hypothetically) So do everyone a solid and stop spreading preventable diseases by bringing your smart phone into the bathroom with you. Unless you’re an on-call Neuro-surgeon, I seriously doubt that anyone needs to get a hold of you that badly. And since we’re on the subject, please teach your newly potty-trained toddler that locking the stall and then army-crawling underneath the door is not “cute”—it’s irritating and I’m one empty locked stall away from giving a complimentary swirlie to the next little monster I see slither out.

In other news, today I told the lovely employees of the bus depot that I will be moving across the universe in October, so I will not be able to continue my stint as their work mule. Twitchy was particularly distraught and used a very convincing/ intellectual argument in his attempts to persuade me to continue working in this inbred factory.

“There’s like lots of poisonous animals in Thailand. Big snakes and stuff. I saw it on animal planet. You shouldn’t go.”

Annnnnnd you’re an idiot. You were probably watching Andaconda and too dense to realize it was a fictional tale of a giant man-eating snake set in SOUTH AMERICA and that J.Lo is a terrible actress not a terrible snake wrangler. It was quite a compelling argument to prolong a gig making minimum wage while dealing with crackheads behind a barbed wire fence, but I declined to let temptation sway my decision to depart. I politely refused his dazzling proposal to continue contemplating lynching myself with the computer charger by 10 a.m. each day and then flicked him off behind his back as he walked away mumbling something about being too busy to talk. That’s Twitchy’s go-to jackass micromanaging move. The little razor toothed rodent creeps up behind my desk… reads whatever I’m “working” on over my shoulder… asks me what it is then tells me he’s too busy to discuss. He scuttles back into his office where he inappropriately fondles his GI Joe dolls then comes back out ten minutes later to ask me which showing of Green Lantern he should attend with his “church friends.” I usually exhibit some compassion for his companions and tell him the midnight showing, that way there’s a chance he will pass out during the film and allow the rest of the group to view in peace. I came in yesterday only to find a mini razor toothed demon eating a Happy Meal at my desk. Apparently some mental patient allowed that beast to inseminate her and the result was twin ginger gerbils. Clearly Twitchy could not only produce one soulless offspring—he had to double the evil. I’m just astounded that he wasn’t shooting blanks to begin with, let alone has the spermpower to procreate a BOGO deal.