Friday, December 03, 2004

Adventures in the Men's Room

I was purging my bladder of Diet Coke this afternoon when a coworker I didn’t recognize emerged from one of the stalls, waddled over to the sink, washed his hands, checked his nose for boogers, yanked some paper towels from the dispenser, dried his hands and then inexplicably ran the paper towels across the top of his head, front to back.

“Dude, what the hell are you doing?” I asked, horrified.

“I’m fixing my hair,” he said matter-of-factly. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m the guy who has never seen anyone use the same paper towel he used to wipe poo from his hands to make sure his hair spikes were all in order,” I said. “Who are you?”

“I’m the guy who’s about to beat your ass if you don’t mind your own business,” he said.

“Ooooooh, scary,” I said, “but I think a better name for you would be ‘Shithead,’ seeing as how that is both literally and figuratively accurate,” I said.

He shook his head and left. I presume the five-syllable word was more than his head could handle.

Reveling in my victory, I moseyed over to the sink to wash my hands. As I did so, I smiled at the handsome devil in the mirror and what smiled back was a horrifying creature straight out of the oral hygiene video they show at the pediatric dentist.

See, there’s this restaurant near my office that serves nothing but buffalo wings. Kung Pao wings, teriyaki wings, honey barbecue wings, and a category guaranteed to be so spicy that it makes your butt shoot sparks when you fart. I went to this restaurant for lunch and clearly managed to lodge more chicken meat between my teeth than I did in my belly. When I smiled at myself in the mirror, I saw so much detritus jammed in between my choppers that it roughly approximated the grill of an 18-wheeler hauling ass through a swarm of fruit flies.

I needed more than floss. I needed a hammer and a chisel. Since none of them was readily available, I resorted to the strategy of my dear father-in-law: I retrieved a business card from my wallet and began to saw between my teeth with it. Chicken pieces came flicking out of my mouth and splattering on the bathroom mirror in front of me. One left a small hairline crack.

Just then my old pal Shithead returned, presumably to wipe more excrement into his hair. He saw me and a look of anger washed over his chubby face.

“You and I have unfinished business,” he said.

“You’re right,” I said.

And with that I stuck the business card between my two front teeth and fired a grape-sized piece of buffalo wing at him. It was a direct hit, right into his left eye.

Shithead fell to the floor hollering something or other about his vision. I walked toward the exit, stepped over his writhing body and pushed open the door. This battle was won.

Before the door could close completely, I shouted back to Shithead: “Don’t start a fight you can’t win, son. And don’t let me catch you putting poo in your hair again.”


Q: What are you getting Hot Wife for Hanukkah?
- Joe in Vegas

A: Living with me is enough of a gift in itself, sir. And I’ll thank you to mind your own beeswax.


At 2:27 PM, Blogger honestyrain said...

shithead. ha ha ha. that was funny. shit-head. ha ha ha.

At 7:04 PM, Blogger biggaysam said...

As long as I live I will never ever understand straight guys.

At 3:06 PM, Blogger Shiz said...

Margaret Atwood has said that a lot of people write for revenge. It's so true.

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