Almost everyday around 10:30 in the morning, I proceed to the corporate washroom to evacuate my bowels. I am a regular man that enjoys his stall time and building on his high scores at cell phone bowling (my lady’s brother aptly refers to his stall time as a visit to the Fortress of Solitude). The problem with the corporate washroom is that every time you open the door, you are rolling the dice. Sometimes, its as fresh and sparkling as if the Mexican janitor just hosed it down with some industrial strength cleaner. Other times, its reminiscent of a monkey cage at the zoo. We have three stalls; two are regular size and one is of the jumbo, handicapped variety. Most people use the handicapped stall because it is spacious and makes one feel important. The amount of traffic to that stall is the very reason I never use it. I do not wish to share the same seat with a grubby salesperson that ate three microwavable cheeseburgers from a gas station for breakfast. My choice is limited to the remaining two stalls. I always choose the stall closest to the door due to my understanding of basic psychology, as most people do not prefer to sit in the seats closest to the door. I open said stall this morning and prepare to take care of business when I notice something on the toilet seat; a single curly hair. I conclude it is indeed a pubic hair, as no man in our office has the kinky, curly locks of Gabe Kaplan or a Jack Sikma. Disgusted, I exit the bathroom, walk down a flight of stairs and use the second floor commode. As of today I have officially instituted a floor down corporate shitting policy. Those mortgage fuckers seem more civilized, anyway.
Update floor down corporate shitting policy: I just returned from the second floor lavatories and must say that I am impressed. The bathroom smelled of a mountain spring, the toilets and floors were spotless and there was a copy of today’s paper left by a thoughtful gentlemen. All that was missing was a classical music feed, a hand towel attendant and a bowl of mints.