Bathroom Talk
OK, I’ve had it. For the third day in a row I’ve been in the men’s room where a mystery man in one of the occupied stalls picks up his cell phone and starts talking while take a shit. Are you serious? Who does this in a public restroom? I’ve never, in the history of owning a cell phone, had a call so important that it couldn’t wait five minutes for me to wipe my ass and call them back. I mean, if the conversations had gone something like this I could understand:
Mystery shitter: “Hello.”
Three second pause
Mystery shitter: “She’s where?!?”
Two second pause
Mystery shitter: “In the emergency room!”
Three second pause
Mystery shitter: “They’re operating! Holy shit, I’ll be there in 20 minutes!”
See, that would be understandable. You get a pass, buddy. Sounds like a life and death situation...you’re allowed to talk on the can.
This, however, was not the case. The conversation I heard this afternoon as my turkey sandwich and Baked Lays from lunch were setting in, went something like this:
Mystery shitter: “Hello.”
Pause
Mystery shitter: “No, I’m not busy.”
NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Hey asshole, there’s someone in the stall next to you. I am busy!
Mystery shitter: “Yeah, I did catch that Mets game the other day. I can’t believe they swept the Braves in Atlanta. This is our year, man.”
NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Christ, he’s talking about the Mets while he’s taking a dump?? [pause] Actually, that’s rather fitting.
Mystery shitter: “Naw, I didn’t end up hooking up with that girl the other night at the bar, she was a B&T skank anyway.”
NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): This is the first time in my life I wish I had a case of ass-bomb diarrhea (sidebar: you know, the kind when your ass just explodes and you feel as if the movement that just happened in your bowels was reminiscent of the exact moment the universe was created. This is usually brought on by excessive beer drinking the night before, which is why I lovingly call it “Morning Mud.”).
Mystery shitter: “Yeah, I’m definitely down to hit a little happy hour tonight. I’ll be getting off work around six, I’ll give you a call. See ya.”
NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Actually, I wish I’d had Chinese food for lunch instead of a sandwich.
So after he finishes his conversation, we’re both at a point where we’re done with our “business.” This is the worst. There’s nothing more awkward than the walk of shame from the stall to the sink when there’s someone else in the restroom. On one hand you’re kind of proud of the damage you’ve done in the men’s room, but on the other hand, you don’t want to announce it to the world. I decide to delay my exit and proceed to pull out my Blackberry and start to write this blog entry...
...OK, fair point, I guess that makes me a mystery shit blogger. What are you going to do?
NYCDG
Mystery shitter: “Hello.”
Three second pause
Mystery shitter: “She’s where?!?”
Two second pause
Mystery shitter: “In the emergency room!”
Three second pause
Mystery shitter: “They’re operating! Holy shit, I’ll be there in 20 minutes!”
See, that would be understandable. You get a pass, buddy. Sounds like a life and death situation...you’re allowed to talk on the can.
This, however, was not the case. The conversation I heard this afternoon as my turkey sandwich and Baked Lays from lunch were setting in, went something like this:
Mystery shitter: “Hello.”
Pause
Mystery shitter: “No, I’m not busy.”
NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Hey asshole, there’s someone in the stall next to you. I am busy!
Mystery shitter: “Yeah, I did catch that Mets game the other day. I can’t believe they swept the Braves in Atlanta. This is our year, man.”
NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Christ, he’s talking about the Mets while he’s taking a dump?? [pause] Actually, that’s rather fitting.
Mystery shitter: “Naw, I didn’t end up hooking up with that girl the other night at the bar, she was a B&T skank anyway.”
NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): This is the first time in my life I wish I had a case of ass-bomb diarrhea (sidebar: you know, the kind when your ass just explodes and you feel as if the movement that just happened in your bowels was reminiscent of the exact moment the universe was created. This is usually brought on by excessive beer drinking the night before, which is why I lovingly call it “Morning Mud.”).
Mystery shitter: “Yeah, I’m definitely down to hit a little happy hour tonight. I’ll be getting off work around six, I’ll give you a call. See ya.”
NYC Drunk Guy (inner monologue): Actually, I wish I’d had Chinese food for lunch instead of a sandwich.
So after he finishes his conversation, we’re both at a point where we’re done with our “business.” This is the worst. There’s nothing more awkward than the walk of shame from the stall to the sink when there’s someone else in the restroom. On one hand you’re kind of proud of the damage you’ve done in the men’s room, but on the other hand, you don’t want to announce it to the world. I decide to delay my exit and proceed to pull out my Blackberry and start to write this blog entry...
...OK, fair point, I guess that makes me a mystery shit blogger. What are you going to do?
NYCDG
posted by NYC Drunk Guy at 11:56 PM
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