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Wednesday, 29 January
I Am A Misanthrope With Certain Bathroom Anxieties
I work with a guy whom I'm going to call Caftan Guy. And the thing is, Caftan Guy is fundamentally intolerable. So I'm just going to get this off my chest. Oh, and if by chance he ever finds out about this post, somehow, let me just say right off the bat, so there's no silly misunderstanding: I hate you, Caftan Guy, because you are so hideous.
He (obviously) wears caftans to work. And sandals. And kilts. And, probably, saris and obis and codpieces and feather boas and nipple clamps for all the fuck I know. I try not to be around Caftan Guy, not only because he looks like a twerp, but because he's Deep, Man. He's always wanting to talk about the latest New York Times story about . . . I don't know, because this is where I always stop listening, because Caftan Guy is about as smart as a tennis racket. But with less utility.
Caftan Guy is very problematic, because he thinks he is very smart, but is in fact, very stupid. Now, I'm becoming more tolerant of stupid people as I come to realize that I can frequently be quite stupid, but Caftan Guy is way beyond the pale. Is the phrase, "Just right-click on the document and select 'print' " a daunting intellectual puzzle to you? Caftan Guy regarded it as some mysterious Zen koan presented in an obscure Portuguese dialect. Have you ever asked anyone, ever, "What happens if I delete this document?" Caftan Guy has asked me that, and was satisfied when I answered him, "You'll delete the document." He walked away chuffing happily, and I sat in my chair pondering the cheerless notion that this person is responsible for actual medical data.
There's another horrible reason I try not to be around Caftan Guy. And that is the bathroom . . . issue. Our company apparently pays this man to take endless, backbreaking dumps, because Caftan Guy is always in the bathroom. Constantly. And there's not much guesswork involved in what's going on, because he periodically cuts loose with bloodcurdling grunts, pops, and whistles. It sounds like the fucking Amazon in there; it freaks me out and makes me want to boil myself. Also, get out of the fucking bathroom, you goddamn bowel-mutant! I can barely bring myself to even shudderingly open the door any more. I'm too afraid I'm going to hear his terrible plorping and urfing and GRUUUUH!-ing.
One final thing about Caftan Guy. He writes haikus. Now, that's cool. I'm down with people writing haikus, even maudlin, clumsy, florid ones. What I'm not down with is reading them. See, he emails them to our entire department when the mood strikes him. The death of a co-worker; the first day of spring; a random erection that he wants to announce: He's going to write a haiku about it. I've decided I'm going to give it a shot.
Dearest Caftan Guy
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So, are you absolutely sure he's just taking a dump in there? Or could it possibly be something else that involves groaning?
A DISGUSTING ANECDOTE IS BELOW. DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER IF YOU WILL BE UPSET BY SOMETHING VERY, VERY ICKY.
I once worked in an office where my co-workers told, in hushed tones, the story of Cyndi. Cyndi spent a lot of time in the bathroom. Cyndi made funny noises. After Cyndi was fired, they discovered a tightly bundled wad of pencils and pens with some sort of...coating.
'Nuff said. Hell, probably too much said.
I didn't want to get into it, Cat, but there are certain olfactory clues that tend to support my conclusions regarding the disport of Caftan Guy's lavatory visits.
I should never have posted this. I am going to be visited by nightmarish visions.
I was going to work "metamucil is your friend" into a haiku, but I thought better of it.
Skooter, please print your haiku out at work and tape it inside the cubicles, pretty pretty please?
(Feel free to execute this operation while wearing gloves so as to conceal your fingerprints)
i'm pretty sure he used to work in my office. you have my sympathies. hopefully, his compatriot, Surreptitiously Toting Guns Guy (who was clinically incapable of making eye contact with other humans) did not follow him.
Sweet merciful Jesus, man. I empathize. I worked with a hippie girl once who apparently lived on twigs and metamucil, because she periodically disappeared into the back of the store and sent a stench-wall forth that peeled paint off of walls and caused fetuses to spontaneously abort.
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