Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Restroom Run In

I don't want crap jokes and toilet stories to dominate my blog. I've already posted enough about this sort of thing to make people wonder about me. I'll be up front: the only thing that I'll bring up potty-wise is that this is where our story takes place. Oh yeah, you'll also learn a new bathroom term. See if you can spot it.

I regularly have to go to the payroll department at work and sort things out with my check. I know the guys up there pretty good. One fellow in particular (the head of payroll) is rather mischievous. This guy is best described as a "psycho-prankster". If you are familiar with some of the Peter Sellers' "Pink Panther" films, then you might remember the character Cato. Not only does this guy look like him, but he hides, then leaps out of nowhere screaming and attacks/scares you half to death or you just end up pissing your Dockers (Sansabelts, for the older bunch).

"Cato", as I'll refer to him now, also thinks its funny to pound on the restroom door and literally scare the crap out of you. The restroom by his suite is the type that is private and has a deadbolt lock. The deadbolt is a little loose, so it can bang loudly, back and forth. Also, being tiled, every noise is amplified and reverberates like crazy. Well here I was, around 5:30 pm, I thought that I was too late to catch anyone in payroll, but I see Cato's office light on and decide to go up there and bother him--maybe even get some payback.

I need to back up a bit to set up this next part. Pastrami is the meat of the Gods, as far as I'm concerned. I am a man who is beholden to its sublime mysteries and flavor. Before I die I must perform the "Trifecta", as accomplished by one George Costanza of "Seinfeld", in order to achieve eternal bliss. Oh, to sit upon a lotus with a pastrami on toasted rye with brown mustard, Ommm.... Here's another truth that I've learned form Seinfeld: pastrami is the sexiest of all the salt-cured meats--it's a fact! One thing about pastrami is, it sometimes comes accompanied with sauerkraut. I like sauerkraut, but sometimes it doesn't like me.

I had a #3 at a deli that I go to regularly for lunch. What is a #3, you ask? Why, it's a pastrami sandwich with brown, spicy mustard on marble rye. I know beforehand that eating certain things can be a crapshoot, so to speak(no pun intended). I just can't seem to reason effectively against the demands of my mouth, and my mouth once demanded German potato salad (pun intended--please laugh). Now, I made an important distinction here: your stomach only wants to be filled, but to be filled with pacific foodstuffs and bits of fluff/debris found under couch cushions; your tongue/orifice, on the other hand, demands that "it" tastes good. I don't know about you, but for me and my body, it can get quite heated when these decisions are being made. Depending on the situation and level of hunger, I take sides, make my decision, and live with it. Most of the time, both my belly and mouth are satisfied. On this particular day, all was well...up to a point.

Flash forward, office parking lot: "(gurgle, gurgle) ohhhhhoh...the hermies!" Now, I had to go #3 (you know, excretions of the third kind, or, the #3 quickly turns into #3). Faster and faster, like Frankenstein's monster in a speed walking race, bobbing back and forth. "Must...make...toilet! Oh...Hi Betty, how are the kids?....must...make...." I had that tunnel vision thing going on. I knew of only one goal, one fate, one true religion (insert Queen's "One Vision", press play now), and nothing was going to get in my way. I was headed for the one bathroom that I would not have to worry about neighbors or public residue: the private restroom on the second floor. One caveat, however, it was that restroom near Cato's office. I rushed up the stairs, because the damn elevator is too slow. I nearly had a security breach on the way up. Finally, I get up to the second floor from the basement floor, and no one is in the private restroom. Joy! In I go, careful to set the deadbolt, check the toilet seat for prior carnage (none...good), pants down (yes), Newsweek in hand (check), and awaaay we go. Ahhhhhhhh!

It was about halfway into the second wave of #3 that I became cognizant of the "Cato" factor. Oh damn, I thought, he better not mess with me. Doesn't he have any respect?...I've got a medical emergency here. Well, this is where things took off, uh...for the second time. A guy starts yelling and pounding on the door, making a big fuss, making an ass of himself. "Hey, I haven't got all day here. What's the hold up dammit?" With the fan going, and my own fireworks at full finale, I did not scrutinize. I drew one conclusion, and one only, it was Cato. I fired right back, "Hey jackass, you'll get in when you get in! Gethahellouttahere, okay?" Cato would thrive on this response and burst out laughing, but there was no laughing, just silence...then the sound of footsteps hurrying away. I finished my "bidness" and then decided to go in and slug Cato in the arm for what he'd done. I walked into his suite only to find that he's having a small conference with his staff. Damn, how'd he do that? I thought.

I didn't want to disturb his conference and went down to the first floor to look at some new artwork. It was then that I bumped into a man, Tom, the head finacial administrator, coming out of the main restrooms. When I looked at him to say hello, he had this wide grin on his blush ridden face. He fessed up, "I'm so sorry. I was the one who yelled at you. I thought you were Cato!" I had a good laugh and explained to him that I thought that he was Cato too. We both vowed to get Cato and make him pay. Tom then went home, and I went back up once I saw Cato's secretary come down the stairs. When I made it up there I could not find a soul. I ventured carefully into the break room to check it out...."HEY!!!!!" Cato jumped out from behind a recliner and scared a buffalo nickel right out of me (the one that I swallowed when I was five).

"Damn you Cato," I exclaimed, then added, "Did you know that you got me and Tom screaming at each other?"

"What..why?" He asked in a half laughing, half perplexed way.

I gave him the whole story, then Cato asked with total straight-faced surprise, "Well, why did you guys think it was me?"


Scott said...

Very funny stuff, got to love the prankster.

Oh Araujo, we are so depressed about him here in Toronto. Saw him play last night and man he is garbage. It seems he can't go near anyone without fouling them.. pretty sad stuff.


rjw said...

I love mistaken identity stories. Not so long ago someone rang my house and asked to speak to Rob. I went to the phone, said "hello" and was immediately subjected to an intense verbal assault from a distressed female claiming to know all about what I had been up to with some other woman. The language was more purple than blue. It took at least a couple of minutes to get sufficient words in edgeways to persuade her that, though my name was indeed Rob, I was not the wrongdoer. Right name, wrong number.
Even then, I was deemed guilty by association of gender and her parting shot, before slamming the phone down was "you're all the f*ckin same anyway"

The Grunt said...

That's pretty hilarious, Rob. I also like the descriptive term "purple" that you used there.

I just like how men can never seem to get any credit: we're all supposedly dogs;)

Also, why did she need to harass you further and add that last bit? I bet all you could do was laugh it off.