Dear Bathroom Play-by-Play/Color Commentator Guy -
When I took this job back in July, I was rather disturbed to learn that the
one bathroom in the entire office was located exactly 15 feet from your desk. Throughout my life, I have enjoyed furtive facilities, lightly trafficked and undisturbed. At my last job, I would pass on the frenetic Men’s Room located adjacent to our office doors and opted instead to venture to the quiet 12th floor, where I could poop in utter solitude. Moreover, I consider taking a crap on the company dime my God given right and do my best reading while tucked away in locked isolation.
Furthermore, when our boss forewarned me that you would make my pooping life here at the office a humiliating experience, I was dumbfounded and didn't quite understand the admonishment. He chuckled and said "Just you wait..."
Unfortunately, I couldn't wait, thanks to a healthy heaping of black beans the night prior and thermos full of black coffee that morning. So I grabbed some reading material, went into the bathroom, locked the door and sat. I took a moment to admire the clean facilities, the wicker basket full of magazines and newspapers, the expensive artwork and all the candles. The bathroom even has a lovely shower attached. If ever there was a place designed to enjoy a daily dump, this is it.
And then it started. I let out muted warning shot before the cannon fodder hit the bowl. No sooner did that one note tune exit my body did I hear the cackling sounds of your high pitched laugh, follwed by a loud, obnoxious "WHOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA".
For a moment, I thought a hyena had entered the building. Then I remembered our boss's warning and knew right away that you were a debase, deranged version of the SNL "Copy Man" played by Rob Schnieder.
In the weeks and months since, I have been treated to rousing applause and several barked out, creative phrases like "Hey, we're trying to run a business out here" or "Oh my god, somebody has diarrhea" or my favorite "Dude, I'm on the phone!". It doesn't matter how hard I try to make as little noise as possible in there, it's as if you have a stethoscope to the door. You have taken what used to be an enjoyable workday past time and turned it into a traumatic experience. And I'm not alone. Everybody in the office is subject to your maniacal cat calls and turd analysis. What sucks is that when we try to flip the tables on you, you just laugh it off and feed on it. You come out of the bathroom holding up your arms like Rocky Balboa.
Not only do you yell and scream anytime you hear a fart, but you have been counting how many times each of us goes in there. If I go twice in a day, you say "Dude, what's wrong with you?" as if going twice in a day is abnormal. The day I went thrice, I thought you were going to call Ripley's. My poor boss installed a weather strip at the bottom of the door thinking that would help. Didn't work. Our poor analyst from India is so afraid of you that he drives to the grocery store to do his business. It's not funny. Also not funny is that you are a former body building champion who wakes up at 2am to work out every single day and could break me in half with your nostrils. Knock it the hell off. Let us poop in peace.
Sweet Kisses,
Poophobic
