The Thursday afternoon cup of coffee tickled my bowels and leaving my cubicle, I made my way to the bathroom on the floor below to avoid and embarrassing run ins. I dropped my pants and plopped down in my usual Thursday afternoon stall, fifth one, all the way on the left. This stall was in some ways my home and I taken it upon myself to look after it, bringing with me each time I went to use the bathroom a small “Graffiti lift off” spray bottle that I had stored under my desk. Whatever sexual cartoon or vile midlife spewing that had been drawn onto my grey wall was no match for the heavy duty graffiti remover, and over time I had started taking pleasure in thwarting peoples attempts to deflower my sanctuary.
I made my way down the ninth floor bathroom, bowels absolutely tingling. This afternoon bathroom break had somehow become a pivotal part of my Thursday routine, without it, the balance of my day would be completely thrown off. Swinging open the thick blue door, I stood, hands on hips, ready to overcome whatever obstacles dared pop up during my(approximate) four minuets spent within the stall. Confidently I strode past the first stall, second stall, third stall, I stopped dead in my tracks. Staring up at me from the fifth stall, MY STALL, were two pale, hairless, completely naked feet. I was dumb-founded, this was breaking every rule there was. The same unspoken law book that stated that the eleventh floor bathroom, the one with the window looking out over central park, was for corporate execs, also stated that the fifth stall on the ninth floor bathroom belonged to Ryan Weiss, middle management. I kept my composure, not wanting to rattle the barefooted man while he was having a serene moment, I gently knocked on the stall door. I waited for a response, ten seconds, fifteen seconds, nothing. This was a problem I
thought scratching my head, a bathroom break any longer than ten minuets was considered time theft, and I must have already been down here for three or four minuets. Banging again on the door, this time a little harder, I was met once again with no response. I had no choice, I opened the door to the fourth stall and plopped down.
“I have a good view of the bastards feet.” I thought. “I’ll just wait here until he’s done.” The stall was disgusting, on the right hand side a large, veiny cartoon penis attached to who I could only assume was an insubordinate slave to middle management, was crudely being shoved into the anus of an artistically accurate copy of Vice President Jerry Franco. I had lost track of time, I must have stolen over fifteen minuets, what amazed me though was the man, who’s toenails were painted hot pink, still hadn’t moved.”
I sighed, standing up to pull my pants down to my knees. Sitting back down, I prepared to empty my bowels in stall four, staring up sadly at the smiling middle management cartoon as he performed ungodly cartoon acts.
