Scott Issue: The Lavatory Story

“You should introduce yourself before you ask me questions that are, quite frankly, none of your damn business.” That’s how I responded to the person who dared to ask me what I was doing on the 17th floor. I’m not a mean or unfriendly person, I just don’t particularly care to be asked questions by strangers. My company occupies the 16th and 19th (penthouse) floors of the building in which I work. So when this person, who obviously works for the same company on my floor, asked me why I was on the 17th floor, where we do not have an office, I responded sternly. Besides being none of his business, I don’t care to explain fully to a perfect stranger what I was doing there. But I hold nothing back from my faithful readers. I was on the 17th floor to use the bathroom. Although we have a bathroom on the 16th floor, I refuse to set foot in there and prefer the conveniences of the 17th floor restroom.

Now you may ask, “What could be so bad about the bathroom on the 16th floor, and what is so great about the one on the 17th floor?” First of all, of the four floors I have access to (16-19), the 16th floor houses the greatest number of employees, most of whom are male. There are two bank corporations on the 17th floor. I think a grand total of 10 people work on that floor, half of whom are female. Thus, the bathroom on the 17th floor is always nice, quiet, empty, and clean. The 16th floor bathroom, however, is dirty, noisy, disgusting, and always has about 5 people in it. There are 3 pissers and 3 poopers in each bathroom in the building. On the 16th floor, there are always two people taking a crap (sometimes three) at least one but perhaps two at the urinals and there’s always some douche bag at the sink, washing his hands as if he’d just gotten some disease by holding his cock for too long. Call me a little compulsive, but when I visit the rest room, I like to have silence, or at least a small semblance of quiet. It’s not that I have to concentrate on anything or that it takes me all that long to find my weiner. It’s that I don’t even want to try to take a piss in a place where I have to listen to the simultaneous discordant sounds of some jerk-off yanking at the paper towel dispenser, two males grunting like they’re giving birth rather than taking a crap, and some dipshit trying to make conversation with me while I have my pecker in my hand – when I can just go up one floor and have a nice quiet urinary experince. And why do these fuckheads have to take all their craps at work, anyway? Can’t they lay their damned stanley steamers at home? What’s the deal with this? If everytime I go to the bathroom I have to be confronted by the by-products of 4 different fiber-deficient diets at once, I won’t use that restroom anymore. This is more or less why I call the 17th floor restroom, my “office.”

Despite the fact that I prefer not to do number two at work, we’ve all had those times where we’ve had no choice but to lay some cable in the employee john. At times like this, I will retreat to the 17th floor. Most often, there is nobody in that bathroom. When nobody is there, I always choose to do my business in the last stall… the one furthest from everyone. I have what I call, “crapper courtesy.” Crapper courtesy is choosing a stall in which another person, if they have to shit, does not have to sit in the stall next to you. Furthermore, it is choosing a stall that is not directly adjacent to the one next to someone who is already IN one of the stalls. When you shit next to someone, you are literally less than two feet from that person with your pants down… close enough to hold hands with bent elbows. I’m supposed to be comfortable shitting that way, knowing that if there wasn’t a thin steel wall separating us that I could know every intimate detail of my coworkers’ lower anatomy? Ah, come on! When I crap, I want to stay as far away from someone’s nasty asshole as possible. Furthermore, I like to extend the courtesy of not offending another person with my noxious odors. This is a reason in itself to avoid the 16th floor. There’s always some classless asshole who chooses the middle stall to shit in, meaning that another person who needs to take a dump will be forced to sit next to him, inhaling every rancid vapor that the inconsiderate loaf-pincher emits from his putrid buttcrack. It’s just as bad when I am in the far stall and some 16th floor fucknut goes into the middle stall. Why doesn’t he just shove his nose up my ass if he wants to smell it so badly? Please! I’ll be on the 17th floor where the chances are far greater that neither of this will take place.

After reading this, do you think I really wanted to explain all this to the doofus on the elevator? After all, it’s difficult to find someone to talk about this kinda of stuff with. I have been tagged as insane, someone with “issues” and a disgusting pig for talking about this with people. Why? We ALL shit. If you do it, you can talk about it. In college, there was a girl who used to swallow guys’ loads on the second date. She blew half the guys on my hall my final year in college (I wasn’t sore that I wasn’t one of them…) One day, I mentioned something about a blow job to my friend as we were in the elevator, where she stood with her latest victim. She scoffed and said “That’s disgusting.” I turned to her, and said, “Oh, it’s OK for you to swallow guys loads on the second date, but it’s disgusting for me to use the word blow job?” I don’t think that I am the one with issues here, but perhaps I am insane. If I am, I am so for other reasons. Because the way I see it, if you purposely sit in a stall where someone is taking a crap a foot and a half from you separated by a flimsy metal partition, while I do my best to keep my stinks to myself and avoid those of others, maybe YOU need to get YOUR head checked.

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