qft (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} qft) wrote,@ 2005-12-06 10:25:00 |
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I'd stay and chat, but I've got a conference on the 5th floor.
This entry is about poop. Hooray! My goal today is to fit as many euphemisms for going #2 as possible into a single blog entry.
One day in the cubicle farm I was complaining to a co-worker of mine how our floor is a complete sausagefest, and therefore it is nearly impossible to take a dump in peace due to a busy men's room. I had been considering scouting the building while out and about doing tech work to discern which floor has the least number of men on it, and to make a habit of setting up camp on that floor when dropping off the kids at the pool. Like most guys, I prefer privacy when scaring up a tater (except for a few men, who seem to take sick pleasure in plopping their cheeks down onto the neighboring throne and going into labor right beside you).
Apparently I have not been the first to come up with this idea, as this particular co-worker clued me into his top-secret intel regarding log-snapping at the Department of Education. He had long ago come to the conclusion that one certain floor is the best location to take the Browns to the Super Bowl. With this information in hand, I went to offload some freight. "You know, whenever I say I've got a conference on the 5th floor to take care of? Yeah."
That went well the first couple of times I took a growler... but recently I've started to think that the cleaning crew has managed to plant a tracking device in my ass, because every time I step out of the office to release the hounds a is Mexican busy cleaning up the bathroom. Even worse, when I find a restroom clear of company, the cleaning crew shows up while I'm in the middle of sinking the Bismark. This happens at least 50% of the time. I have never in my life seen such a thorough cleaning crew, because they are *always* in the bathroom and *never* leave before I'm finished. I'm already embarrassed enough when I'm walking out so I try to simply wash my hands and make a quick exit, but it's happened so often that they always say hi and wave to me as I emerge from the crapper. They must think my job consists entirely of snapping yambos in their presence. I mean, come on... I'm only in there once a day or so... there's seventeen stories and thirty-four restrooms in my building... why is there always a Mexican in my bathroom?
This entry is about poop. Hooray! My goal today is to fit as many euphemisms for going #2 as possible into a single blog entry.
One day in the cubicle farm I was complaining to a co-worker of mine how our floor is a complete sausagefest, and therefore it is nearly impossible to take a dump in peace due to a busy men's room. I had been considering scouting the building while out and about doing tech work to discern which floor has the least number of men on it, and to make a habit of setting up camp on that floor when dropping off the kids at the pool. Like most guys, I prefer privacy when scaring up a tater (except for a few men, who seem to take sick pleasure in plopping their cheeks down onto the neighboring throne and going into labor right beside you).
Apparently I have not been the first to come up with this idea, as this particular co-worker clued me into his top-secret intel regarding log-snapping at the Department of Education. He had long ago come to the conclusion that one certain floor is the best location to take the Browns to the Super Bowl. With this information in hand, I went to offload some freight. "You know, whenever I say I've got a conference on the 5th floor to take care of? Yeah."
That went well the first couple of times I took a growler... but recently I've started to think that the cleaning crew has managed to plant a tracking device in my ass, because every time I step out of the office to release the hounds a is Mexican busy cleaning up the bathroom. Even worse, when I find a restroom clear of company, the cleaning crew shows up while I'm in the middle of sinking the Bismark. This happens at least 50% of the time. I have never in my life seen such a thorough cleaning crew, because they are *always* in the bathroom and *never* leave before I'm finished. I'm already embarrassed enough when I'm walking out so I try to simply wash my hands and make a quick exit, but it's happened so often that they always say hi and wave to me as I emerge from the crapper. They must think my job consists entirely of snapping yambos in their presence. I mean, come on... I'm only in there once a day or so... there's seventeen stories and thirty-four restrooms in my building... why is there always a Mexican in my bathroom?
