A few weeks ago, there was a large move within the company I work for. This basically meant that teams switched buildings, and we now have a new crop of co-workers around us to insistently mock and ridicule behind their backs. Well, there’s one fellow here, whom we’ve taken to called Shrek 2 [the original Shrek disappeared one day never to return], who has a rather odd bathroom ritual. It seems that Shrek 2 will go into the handicapped stall in the bathroom, take off all of his clothes, except for his socks, and then proceed to take the most wicked Shit imaginable by a human being.
It took us awhile to figure out who could be doing this. Someone would run back to the offices and say, “Hey, I’m not sure, but I think there’s a naked dude taking a dump in the bathroom.” They could see a pile of clothes in the corner and the black socked feet hanging. Work in a fluorescent filled, cubicle hell can be rather monotonous and boring, and it’s amazing how we can spend hours discussing and dissecting the most moronic topic. For a week, this became the topic of most importance as we tried to figure out who the fuck was doing this. We finally nailed it yesterday.
I had a friend in grad school that had to be completely naked before he could take a shit. He would literally rather shit his pants before using a public toilet. He lived close enough to the school just in case he had to run home in a pinch. The guy to hold onto his shit like it was gold, but in order to spend the entire day away from home, for, say, a film shoot, or something like that, it was a two hour preparation ritual before leaving the house in order to guarantee he would need a bathroom before he returned home.
There is a woman who works here that has been on leave for the last three weeks. Being that we are all a bunch of gossip whores sticking their beaks into other people’s business [no secret can be kept in this place for longer than a half an hour] everyone was curious as to what was going on with her. People knew what was going on, but they were keeping uncharacteristically mum about it. No one wanted to talk about it.
Well, a couple of days ago, I was talking with two other cats I work with and the subject of this woman and the reasons for her leave came up again. It was implied that they both knew what the deal was, but they were reluctant to tell me. Rather flippantly, I said, “What? Her kid have cancer?” The response: It’s worse than that.
Worse than cancer! Huh? What is the world could possibly be worse than your kid having cancer?
Cut to the chase, leaving the specifics to a minimum, it looks as if her daughter was messed with by a man. It had come out through a school counselor.
This totally blew my mind and it was the very last thing I would have ever guessed. The three of us talked about it for a bit, and then I got silent.
Me: You know, I don’t think that’s worse than cancer.
To which became a rather funny, although pitch, pitch black kind of conversation where we were trying to figure out whether you’d rather have your kid molested or be stricken with cancer. I was the only one who went with molestation. Yeah, sure, molestation would be really fucking terrible, something that could very well affect your entire life and every relationship you every have, but cancer = death, and that’s no five to ten, that’s eternity.
But that’s me. That’s how I roll. I look forward to your opinions.
Take care.
It took us awhile to figure out who could be doing this. Someone would run back to the offices and say, “Hey, I’m not sure, but I think there’s a naked dude taking a dump in the bathroom.” They could see a pile of clothes in the corner and the black socked feet hanging. Work in a fluorescent filled, cubicle hell can be rather monotonous and boring, and it’s amazing how we can spend hours discussing and dissecting the most moronic topic. For a week, this became the topic of most importance as we tried to figure out who the fuck was doing this. We finally nailed it yesterday.
I had a friend in grad school that had to be completely naked before he could take a shit. He would literally rather shit his pants before using a public toilet. He lived close enough to the school just in case he had to run home in a pinch. The guy to hold onto his shit like it was gold, but in order to spend the entire day away from home, for, say, a film shoot, or something like that, it was a two hour preparation ritual before leaving the house in order to guarantee he would need a bathroom before he returned home.
There is a woman who works here that has been on leave for the last three weeks. Being that we are all a bunch of gossip whores sticking their beaks into other people’s business [no secret can be kept in this place for longer than a half an hour] everyone was curious as to what was going on with her. People knew what was going on, but they were keeping uncharacteristically mum about it. No one wanted to talk about it.
Well, a couple of days ago, I was talking with two other cats I work with and the subject of this woman and the reasons for her leave came up again. It was implied that they both knew what the deal was, but they were reluctant to tell me. Rather flippantly, I said, “What? Her kid have cancer?” The response: It’s worse than that.
Worse than cancer! Huh? What is the world could possibly be worse than your kid having cancer?
Cut to the chase, leaving the specifics to a minimum, it looks as if her daughter was messed with by a man. It had come out through a school counselor.
This totally blew my mind and it was the very last thing I would have ever guessed. The three of us talked about it for a bit, and then I got silent.
Me: You know, I don’t think that’s worse than cancer.
To which became a rather funny, although pitch, pitch black kind of conversation where we were trying to figure out whether you’d rather have your kid molested or be stricken with cancer. I was the only one who went with molestation. Yeah, sure, molestation would be really fucking terrible, something that could very well affect your entire life and every relationship you every have, but cancer = death, and that’s no five to ten, that’s eternity.
But that’s me. That’s how I roll. I look forward to your opinions.
Take care.
