This week, a co-worker accused potty blogger of being a turd burglar.
There are many definitions, but my accuser’s claim was that on Monday of this week, I entered the third floor men’s room, saw that the penthouse stall was occupied and then slipped into the stall of last resort to conduct my business.
That’s right. My crime: making a transaction while a co-worker was in the middle of one himself.
Let’s be clear, I did not try to use the same stall as my co-worker. I did not barge in and say, “I must make my deposit in here, right now. Please stand aside.” No, I used a separate stall all together--and even left the Peter Brady stall vacant as a buffer between us.
But my accuser is part of a small (but vocal) minority that believes if you see a co-worker using ANY of the stalls, you should politely excuse yourself and travel to another floor. They believe that the very act of sitting down while another gentlemen is mid-business, robs the first gentleman of the ability to perform. Thus “the turd” has been “burgled.”
This belief is akin to those remote tribesmen who believe that having their picture taken results in the loss of their soul--it is, of course, ridiculous, but different cultures must be respected.
However, respect is one thing and tyranny is quite another. When a small group begins to lob charges of turd burgling willy-nilly, it smacks of McCarthyism. The mere act of accusing someone of stealing your ability to BM creates an atmosphere of fear and distrust.
My grandfather fought in WWII. My father served in the National Guard. I...work in a very challenging professional environment and sometimes have to be in front of my computer for several hours. My people have EARNED the right to make a number two when they want, where they want.
You do not need to fear me. I do not want to steal your turd. Poop in peace, my friend. We are brothers and we both want the same thing.
Musings about the men’s restrooms at 720 California Street in San Francisco
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Actually, I’d rather not have one of your BMs on my coffee table
Most of you, dear readers, are good people. Decent. Hard working. Respectable. (Well...decent and hardworking, anyway.)
But some of you are freaks.
I know this because some of you send me all sorts of horrible filth. Yes, I do appreciate a good tip about a crime scene here at 720 California. No, I don’t need you to send me an iPhone snap of the two-footer you dropped in the Mission this weekend.
What is interesting is that you really can’t judge a book by its cover when it comes to this stuff.
Just this week, one of the sweetest, loveliest, young-lady co-workers here at 720 California shocked me by suggesting--out of the blue and with no context, “You should do a coffee table book of toilet bowl shots. Weird shapes. Gruesome splatter patterns. But arty, you know?”
Um...OK.
Is there really a demand for such a coffee table book, dear readers? Can you really see that one in the bargain bin at Barnes & Noble? And who, exactly, is the intended recipient of that gift? “Hey grandma, you’re super hard to shop for, but I think you’re going to love my Christmas present this year.”
I'm sure granny will love it. Because it’s arty, you know?
But some of you are freaks.
I know this because some of you send me all sorts of horrible filth. Yes, I do appreciate a good tip about a crime scene here at 720 California. No, I don’t need you to send me an iPhone snap of the two-footer you dropped in the Mission this weekend.
What is interesting is that you really can’t judge a book by its cover when it comes to this stuff.
Just this week, one of the sweetest, loveliest, young-lady co-workers here at 720 California shocked me by suggesting--out of the blue and with no context, “You should do a coffee table book of toilet bowl shots. Weird shapes. Gruesome splatter patterns. But arty, you know?”
Um...OK.
Is there really a demand for such a coffee table book, dear readers? Can you really see that one in the bargain bin at Barnes & Noble? And who, exactly, is the intended recipient of that gift? “Hey grandma, you’re super hard to shop for, but I think you’re going to love my Christmas present this year.”
I'm sure granny will love it. Because it’s arty, you know?
Friday, March 19, 2010
Big Mac'n
Yesterday, I came across something pretty disturbing.
Somebody Big Mac'd in the penthouse stall on third floor and did not remove the burger.
(For those of you who may be less familiar with potty parlance, a "Big Mac" is when you make some number two, stand, wipe, drop the TP into the bowl and then realize that you're not quite finished, so you go in for a second session--creating another "patty" on top of the toilet paper "bun," as it were.)
Men, there's no shame in creating a double-stacker. But it's not something you need to share with others.
We've been over this many times, but apparently, it bears repeating: Stand. Flush. Check the bowl. If it is not COMPLETELY CLEAR, flush again. Repeat as necessary.
Somebody Big Mac'd in the penthouse stall on third floor and did not remove the burger.
(For those of you who may be less familiar with potty parlance, a "Big Mac" is when you make some number two, stand, wipe, drop the TP into the bowl and then realize that you're not quite finished, so you go in for a second session--creating another "patty" on top of the toilet paper "bun," as it were.)
Men, there's no shame in creating a double-stacker. But it's not something you need to share with others.
We've been over this many times, but apparently, it bears repeating: Stand. Flush. Check the bowl. If it is not COMPLETELY CLEAR, flush again. Repeat as necessary.
New janitor
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Executive multitasking
Walked into fourth floor men's room yesterday afternoon and found the Big Boss at the big boy urinal.
He had one hand on the wheel and was holding a piece of paper in the other hand, which he was reading.
That's why his name is on the building, folks.
He had one hand on the wheel and was holding a piece of paper in the other hand, which he was reading.
That's why his name is on the building, folks.
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