Throwing Poo

The other day I was scouring a security-free office building for items that might make fine additions to my eBay seller’s inventory.  I call it “prospecting,” though some facist authorities who are sticklers for the truth might argue my choice of words.  As I was weighing the resale value of a slightly-used standing ashtray versus the likelihood that I could fit a beige loveseat with a few sinister –looking stains into my Saturn, I felt nature calling.  The night before I had tried a Diet Coke and Mentos experiment with my digestive system using Taco Bell and Pabst Blue Ribbon and achieved surprisingly similar results, but with a bit more linger. 

Anyway, as I occupied a stall and stuffed the extra toilet paper rolls into my gym bag – doing business as I was doing my business, one might say – the bathroom door swung open.  I froze, certain that a hidden camera had filmed my prospecting, and began to consider the implications of my imminent Youtube infamy.  Just then a man’s voice rang out with words that stiffened my back and I immediately kicked a foot out to brace the stall door and protect my vulnerable condition. 

"I’m want to take it to the next level and am not afraid to get my hands dirty"

"Do you have an open-door policy?"

"I like to think outside the box"

"I’m a peep-hole person"  

Clearly upon re-examination this two-bit hack was reciting some last minute clichés for an upcoming and probably unsuccessful interview.  While I have certainly heard these phrases before during the numerous interviews in which I have conducted, sitting in the context of a men’s public restroom had a shockingly new and dare I say dramatic affect on my immediate interpretation.

At first I thought that I had become far more homophobic than I had ever realized.  But that’s not it.  Thanks to the likes of George Michael, Larry Craig, Tim McGreevy and the Wiggles (you know it’s only a matter of time), public men’s restrooms now share the same reputation as a Turkish prison and a cast afterparty of the traveling production of Rent. 

The good thing is that it is typically not an issue when there are three or more guys in the can, but when there are just two, it’s a Code Rainbow Alert.  Defense walls fly up, gaydars kick into full spin, and smart soldiers wear their war faces.  This is no time for chit-chat or friendly gestures.  Chances are if the other guy isn’t trolling for treats, he’s an undercover reporter looking for a quick story, and you better believe his editor can and will splice your,

“How’s it going, pal? See the game last night?  Yep, they lost again. I’m getting tired of watching them play eight innings of solid baseball just to see their closer come in and blow it in the bottom of the ninth,” 

into

“I’m going to blow your solid eight again and come in your bottom,”

without the slightest blip.

At least that is what I’ll be spending the next month trying to convince Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. to believe.

(POSTED FROM THE SUNNY, SANDY BEACHES OF COROLLA, BITCHES!)