Every time I talk with Dear Ma-ma, she gently reminds me in that motherly way, "You better be nice to the senior (citizens), you punk-ass whipper-snapper."
"Or what, ma? They'll take out their dentures to use them as hand pinchers to snap my danglies?"
So I write this little diddy with one eye looking over my shoulder, afraid Dear Ma-ma is hovering over me with her weapon of choice - a rolling pin - ready to crack me one if I talk wise about the fogeys out this way.
Don't worry ma. I'll keep it peaches and cream for the Greatest Generation.
I've found the seniors have a smell all their own. Part Ben Gay, part moth ball, part Estee Lauder (or Old Spice if its an old dude) and all cream-of-corn loving senior citizen, you catch a whiff of one and you'd swear the grim reaper just let loose a bomb that would burn your nose to a smoldering nub. Hell, when I'm asked to be Joe Nice Guy when one of my walker-toting fans stop by the office, I hold my breathe hoping the conversation will be short - passing out from a lack of oxygen could be problematic and may lead to a 90-year-old, thick-whiskered grandma who looks like Anne Ramsey in "Throw Mama from the Train" giving me mouth-to-mouth to revive me.
But nothing is like the nose-hair singing stench that hugs the men's room at the prison work camp and gut kicks you with each stifled breathe.
That was my realization this morning as I sauntered in for my fifth leak break of the morning (if I don't hit six by 10 a.m. my eyes go yellow) and was whalloped by such a stink I thought one of my walker-toting fans keeled over on the crapper and died. Just great, I thought, one less reader. There goes my twenty-five cent raise. I checked the first stall - nothing but a crumpled sports page and some nudie magazines (the reporters need something to do during their breaks). Next came the handicap stall - everyone's favorite because it's the size of an airplane hanger so we can really stretch out and get some good reading done - and I breathed (I filtered it through pinched nostrils) a sigh of relief when there was no body f0und.
And with nary a soul in the can, I had to ask myself, who is walking around with a diseased hunk of meat in their intestines? I let it go and quickly did my business so my clothes wouldn't become a host to the stench like a cow is a fly hotel in a pasture.
Just as I'm about to depart from the Little Room of Stink, in comes one of the nudie-magazine reading reporters, and of course he can't let the putridness of the bathroom go uncommented on.
"Having a not so fresh morning, are ya?"
"Whoa, buck-o, it ain't me."
"Yeah, and I'm coming in here to read the magazine articles."
I would have fought more, but at that point, with my oxygen level nearing empty, I passed out from holding my breathe too long. Done in again by geritol-munching seniors. I swear they're plotting against, likely trying to kill me off. Maybe Dear Ma-ma is right, I should be nicer to them.
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2 comments:
Such a horribly awkward moment, you're walking out gasping for air, they're walking in giving you that thanks a lot you wretched cretin look.
Do you try to defend yourself that it wasn't you, that your bowel movements actually smell like roses or do you just wander back to your desk without saying a word.
The answer is simply a shot clock. To gain entrance to the can you simply swipe your card that gets you into the building. Now it will double as the way to unlock that prisitine bathroom of ours. Above the shot clock will be your name and the time you've been in the can. Don't worry it will have a multitude of timers to accomodate the capacity of three inhabitants.
To exit the can you slide your card past the sensor once again.
So unless somebody suspects you of having the Hershey squirts you simply point to the clock which will show them that no human being could have administered that type of stentch in the minute forty you took to take a wizz.
Financially impractical?
Sure
Inconvenient if in fact you do have the Hershey squirts and are in a hurry?
No doubt
But the flip side is you won't get the stink eye unless you were in fact responsible for the eye-watering aroma that frequently permeates the shitter.
I've got a lot of great ideas if only they'd put me in charge.
P.S. where do those reporters keep the nuddie magazines? Why wasn't I notified?
How do you expect the prison work camp to afford a shot clock when it can't buy an extra sports reporter - or basic cable?
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