Wednesday, December 14, 2005

Corporate Crapper Etiquette? Me thinks not.

I take dumps. Lots of 'em. Lots of 'em at work, some times more than once in a day. So do lots of other men, I know because those aren't women's dress shoes I see happily planted on the floors of the toilet stalls at work.

We pinch loafs. We drop deuces. We take the Browns to the Super Bowl. We drop the tan babies off at the pool. We drop logs. We serve the corn casserole. Call it what you want ... it's a basic human function, this excrement.

I read on the crapper. So what. So do lots of other men. In fact, these are the things I know men do - I know because I've heard them - on the crapper:

-squeeze out the most vile sounding and smelling farts
-text message on an unidentified digital device
-do work on PDAs
-use a cell phone, for crying out loud
-browse catalogues
-spank the monkey

My wife was mortified when I told her I took dumps at work. She was double mortified to learn my dirty little secret: that I dare to read the sports page on the crapper - while on the clock. She is certain I'm the butt of jokes - pun intended - and that people e-mail about me behind my back as soon as I get up to use the john. Even when I told her that I discretely fold the sports page into my pocket so that no one can see it, she still said that the women in the office would easily sniff me out. I told her I leave the sports page behind for the next man who squats on the porcelain. Not good enough for my lady. She even goes so far as to say that I must exit the bathroom with a paper towel in my hand and carry it all the way to the trash bin in my office, as if to say: LOOK AT ME WORLD, I WASH MY FILTHY HANDS CLEAN AFTER A GOOD SIT ON THE CONTAMINATED TOILETS OF CORPORATE AMERICA.

I call b.s. I don't announce that I'm going to hacer kaka unless I fart really loud first, which I try to avoid. So it's either a) I take my time and enjoy the sports page - which is nothing compared to other crappy multi-taskers, or b) I fart and fart till I can't take it anymore and sprint through an unfulfilling toilet experience. No way, says me. When a man has to know how many points Ike Diagu scored against Seattle, he also has to know what Milton Bradley's on-base percentage was last year.

To all of you overly-anal corporate crapper watch dogs: I wash my hands, so eat my shorts. They'll be clean, because I take my time to wipe ... thoroughly.

Merry Christmas Crappers! Enjoy your paid time on the toilet.

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