I pose the question: where can you find a pointy pleather shoed Ricky Martin look- alike taking all too long to move his bowels next to a sloppy sixty year-old accountant sipping his flask through a straw while jerking off to "The Wall Street Journal" next to an asian sensation violently shaking his hamster dick to ensure not a single drop graces his petite purple panties all within earshot of a five foot tall serbian named Hans who is brushing his teeth, flossing, and milking every ounce of phlegm from his fucking esophagus before returning to his cubicle?
If you guessed Asst. Principal Brian E. Hunt's office after hours, guess again. These, my friends, are just some of the usual suspects crowding the corporate restrooms across America.
It is sad but true. You kiss your husbands and wives, fathers and mothers goodbye, wishing them a prosperous, a pleasant day. But nothing, not one thing, can prepare them for the horrors inherent in the place of their piss. Upon entering it's doors both humanity and humility go down the drain. You are first hit with the smell. Needless to say, it is the smell of shit. Yet a second sniff tells you otherwise. This is no ordinary shit. No. This is the shit of soy-latte guzzling, vegetarian vega-scarfing yuppie scum... and it fucking sucks. After a good thirty seconds of holding your breath to fight off the stench, you resort to a method of deep gasps through the mouth. Lightheadedness ensues and it is no longer worth the trouble. You suck it up, let down your defenses, and suck it in. Breathing a sigh of unhealthy relief, you come to terms with your surroundings.
Most of you are probably unaware that I hold the distinct pleasure of frequenting such a gem to the corporate society each and every fucking day. That particular pleasure is derived solely from the sanitary bowl-covers that are always stocked in at least one of the four stalls in the line up. I have been working in the building a little over a month now. Here is just a taste of what I have encountered...
I stand at a urinal and commence my flow. A middle aged gentlemen with the most peculiar stride to his step waltzes in, bypassing both urinals and stalls, and heads straight for the paper towels. In all likelihood, he could be blowing his nose, cleaning a spill in the office, or wiping his lenses... but I know things just aren't that simple around here. Through the corner of my eye I spot this freak snatch a paper towel and proceed to press it into a bowl, demonstrating complete mastery of the art that is pinch-pottery. He approaches me and unzips at a nearby urinal, attempting to conceal his creation... he is less than successful. My imagination runs wild and an unstoppable grin results. Both of us know he is up to something, and there is little neither him nor myself can do.
After close to minute of feigning urination simply to see what the fuck is going on, I zip up and rush to the mirror to wash, keeping close tabs on the man in the reflection. What I see next can only be described as one of the most vulgar cases of restroom misconduct ever to occur in that very building's history; that I am sure of. I shudder thinking about it to this day.
If you haven't guessed already, this man's contraption was used before my eyes to dab his dripping penis. As I gaze on, my jaw drops and I look down in disbelief... my thoughts race. How could an executive, a husband, a brother... a father be so fucking inept as to not have mastered the simple skill of male urinary procession from an early age. The man was in his mid-fifties for Christ's sake!
He walks in his same scheming nonchalant stride to the waste paper basket. He knows what he's done and he knows what I've seen. He figures: he's only a kid. He then proceeds to leave the visibly soaked-through pinch-pot on top of the overflowing basket and cover it with a fresh paper towel, righting his most heinous crime in the minds of all but one— which is why I am describing this today.
If you have yet to encounter the horrors of the corporate restroom feel no rush. Sadly, in five years you, too, will most likely be working a cubicle 9-5 and be hard at work reinventing the perversion of this mecca for degeneracy. Until then, keep clean, children. Know that there is no humanly cause to lift your feet off the floor while making poo-poo, and that if you see this from under a stall door, turn the other way, because there is a lot more than poo-poo going on in that stall. Watch out for the cornhole and above all else, shake as many times as needed; you are not being judged.