Brought to you by the effects of Stockholm Syndrome from holding myself hostage for so many years.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Grunt Confidential: Confessions of an anonymous toilet librarian
Okay, I know you are wondering what in the hell I am up to now. Well, I am taking a true life event of an individual (we'll call him Frank) that involves the activity of taking books into bathrooms. We are not talking Seinfeld, either. I will take the liberty of adapting Frank's story so that it will not suck. Frank is too dull to tell a good story....yeah, Frank--heh, heh.
So, I was on break one day and decided to take a look at the new books that they are offering from the book thingy (he can't remember). Well, after I got looking through most of them, I settled on Rachel Ray's "30 Minute Meals" and decided to take her into the bathroom for some "me" time. We have this nice private restroom right by the breakroom. It is totally noise maker friendly, in that it doesn't tattle on ya! So, I go into this bathroom, sit down, and take a sizable bowel movement--a combo--and get to work on a 30-minute something or other. Heh, more like a one minute something or other.
I had the book in one hand and the other hand was busy grilling something. Olive oil is the shiznit! Anyhoo, I get cooking and I'm just about to flip the burgers, so I stand up to take aim, set the book on the top of the paper dispenser, and dinner is served. I went to wipe a bit of grease off the spatula with some toilet paper and I knocked the damn book off the dispenser. Guess where this book went? Yep! Right into the the coals. Oh God, why hast thou forsaken me? I just had one question for myself: What in the hell do I do now? I immediately started to laugh maniacally at the stewed cookbook, toilet paper greens, and fecal dressing, like I was either going to die immediately, or have all my doings paraded about the water coolers throughout the complex.
See, this book was for display purposes only. You fill out an order form and they mail you the book(s). Shit, this was awkward. So, Rachel Ray is now swimming with the tadpoles: glug-glug! The fugk this had to happen to me for? I'm a good boy. I help old ladies, er, old hot ones....Um, well hot ladies cross the road. That's still helping, for chrissakes! Anyway, I decided that the only thing left to do was spit, bleed, and cry into the melting pot of my own bodily fluids. Hey, I figured that since I was on a roll already, I might as well finish the job.
After much time had passed, and constant panicked laughing, I came to the conclusion that a fishing expedition was in order. I contemplated many things, like mugging the janitor, getting his keys to open his closet, get the big rubber gloves, and bingo! No, the janitor would just kick my puny ass. Fugk! Ah, I could just go in quickly and throw the book into the sink. Yeah! Believe it or not, I did not think to flush the toilet first. Double fugk!!!
I get the book from point A to point B with no cockups. Oh lord on rye, I caught a break. This dripping mess still looked salvageable. Naw, I can't...I thought...This is just plain wrong, not to mention WRONG-WRONG-WRONG! God, what am I going to do? I quickly devised a plan using an old cigar tube, some twine, and some vinegar mixed with baking soda. YAY! Uh, didn't happen that way, I'm afraid. No, it went more like this, in form of a song: Oh fuggity fugk, a fugk-fugk-fugk...what am I to dooooooo??? (There was a dance involved as well) I looked all around me, just like my friend McGyver would do (thanks Grunty/Bubba). What did I find? HAIRDRYER and LYSOL!!! Yes, there was a freakin' hair dryer under the sink in the cabinet. The Lysol was up on a shelf.
I checked the cover for skid marks. None! I then did the smell test, phew! I guess drinking all that water had paid off: my urine was pretty clear. I then had to check for any amphibious creatures...eh, a little on her blouse. Figures. I wiped the jacket down the best I could. Wow, I thought, what a freakin' well made book. See, Rachel Ray doesn't lend her name out to just any old crap publisher. No, she is first class all the way. I got every page wiped and disinfected with the Lysol, dried it out well with the dryer on low heat, and then had to plot my non-chalant entrance back to the breakroom. What I didn't expect was the pages curling up, or how to explain my twenty-minute bowel movement to my co-workers. Eh, fugk it. You just walk out there and act like nothing happened. But, you aren't even supposed to take books into the bathroom--haven't you learned anything from watching Seinfeld? I was sooooo screwed.
I cleaned up myself and took a bunch of paper towels to wrap up the book. After the book was sufficiently wrapped, I tucked it under my shirt, down my back waist line...yeah, the small of my back, but that sounds so gay, sheesh. Ok, I felt secure enough to go out and make for the breakroom.
Upon entering the breakroom, I was greeted by Marilyn from accounting: Just wave hi and move on. Sheeeewhooooo! She passed right on by, leaving me all to myself in the breakroom. I immediately placed the book back on the table, flat, and put a heavy book on top of this one so as to keep the pages from warping and curling up. Clever me...clever me. Then I started to laugh like mad again. Well, I pretty much laughed like an idiot throughout the rest of the day and had everyone wondering what in the hell was wrong with me.
I had no idea that I'd have a moral crisis after the perfect crime.
Me: Well, maybe I should see if I can buy the display book and then I can throw it away. I couldn't throw it away before, because that would be stealing. But, if I buy the book, I can do whatever with it. I mean, someone is going to notice that it ain't right. What if I get busted? Can they fire me? Would I even want to continue working here if they all found out? How in the hell do explain this to the book lady? Do they call in CSI for this stuff? Oh god, I'm so dead!
This was starting to get all Poe's "Tell Tale Heart" on me.
I figured out what to do: I will put the right amount of cash in the book, with a printed note explaining that the book was not fit for sale or display, due to an "accident". This way I didn't run the chance of someone seeing me cart this book off again.
All together now: I am a fugking genius!!!
The book lady came, took her books, and I am as they say, pretty damn chuffed. One last thing: I will never take another book that I do not own into a restroom ever again. A magazine, sure, but not a book.