shitting at work.

this is another announcement about forthcoming posts masquerading as a post. trust me, this is the motts.

so, on my way to men’s bathroom 5N, i walk by an older manager of manager. i don’t think he’s above me in the company tree, but he most certainly is a six figga non-nigga. quick headnod, it’s reciprocated and a dumping i will go. 12-15 minutes later, i am yet to defeat solitaire and my turdsquisher has been thorughly wiped and air-dryed like a Kensigton girl’s ponytail and it’s time to step out of the stall and get back to work. now, a couple minutes ago, i had heard someone entering good ol’ 5N and using the adult pisser. he was fuckin’ around finishing and splashin’ water and i disobeyed one of The Rules by stepping out to meet eyes with the lurker.

and, of course, as i foreshadowed above, you know who it was. another head nod, except, this time, he knew i just threw a good 15-20 minutes of company time down the shitter.

now, he either feels that i am a ridiculous loser that just spent the last 20-25 minutes in the handicapped stall jerkin’ off to the usa today life section (that broad that wrote about the prince/ jt feud is an idiot) -or- he may think that i had the ill bubble, but the good discretion to courtesy flush away the stank. let’s hope it’s the latter.

yan thinks that writing a book about, or at least, centering my current writings around the shits i take at work is a horrible idea. she’s on that bullshit, of course. every dude i know has a shitting regimen — certain techniques used to minimize smell, maximize after shit sitting time, favorite stalls… it’s more thought put into the daily shit than all of the valentines day gifts across this here globe. double truth, ruth.