Metrican Standoff

We have a pot luck1 at work today with an assortment of chips, dips and other fattening and delicious things.

One of my colleagues came over to me and said, “Hey, we have Enchiladas over here.  In England, do you call then Centimetreladas?”.

I laughed like a fucking drain.

usa-vs

1 For my English readers (or ‘friends and family’ as I like to call them).  A ‘Pot Luck’ is when Americans bring food to work either store bought or in a slow cooker (crock pot). In a nation that loves buffets, American workers have figured out a way to bring the buffet to the workplace.

-burp-

Is the pen REALLY mightier than the sword?

There are phrases out there in the world that people have tattooed on bodies, printed on clothing and plastered all over social media profiles to make them appear somehow more profound.

I’m talking about the sort of drivel designed to be inspirational or empowering, but actually results in me despising them more than a complete stranger should.

MP Knight

These are words of encouragement to let you know you’re special…a unique little snowflake.

Here are a couple of examples:

“Only God can judge me”

Hmm, I’m not sure I – and groups of people all over the world known as ‘Juries’ – fully agree with that one.

“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger”

What about arthritis?

Anyway, yesterday at the gym I saw a guy wearing a t shirt with this slogan emblazoned across the back of it.

“No weapon formed against me shall prosper”

So I shot him.

IJ Gun

Talking crap

I’ve just been for that first satisfying bowel movement of the day.  The one that usurps all others.

It was great.

But, unlike those I enjoy at weekends, this one was at the office.

A downside to curling out a fresh biscuit at work is that you’re not always the only baker in the bakery.  This visit was one of those times.

Now, a story like this isn’t unusual under normal circumstances, but this was far from normal.  As I entered the toilets [restroom/bathroom] I could hear that the occupant of the far cubicle [stall] was talking to someone.  He was on the phone.

I took the first cubicle because, well, no-one likes to poo within a foot of another person.  I don’t care if there’s a layer of wood between me and him; if I can see the shadow of his feet, I’m too close.

The toilets at work don’t have piped in music, nor are they located next to an airport runway so it was deathly quiet in there and therefore I could hear every word he was saying.

“I know”

“Yes, I heard you”

“Well, you hurt my feelings”

“Yes”

“Yes I know”

“OK”

There was a pause.

“I love you”

His call must have ended at that point because he then proceeded to wipe his arse.

Nice.

I finished my performance, flushed and then spent an unnecessarily long time washing and drying my hands.

Why?

Well, it could be because I believe in good personal hygiene, or it could be because I wanted to see if this guy had the bollocks to come out of his cubicle and reveal himself.

He didn’t.

I wouldn’t have either.

So, to respect his privacy and integrity, I left.

Then, out of respect for the guy, I didn’t hang around in the kitchen waiting to see who emerged.  I didn’t think it was right to make myself a coffee really slowly so I could check out if it was someone I knew (who may read my blog and somehow take this invasion of privacy personally).

After a few minutes he emerged.  Thankfully I didn’t know him.

It was just one of our security team; a massive bastard built like a brick shithouse.

This could be my last post.

picard phone loo

Today at the gym…

There was a guy in the gym tonight who, I would say, is in his early sixties with a shaved head and built like a brick shithouse.

He’s clearly been working out for over half his life which was evident from the fact that he was as wide as he was tall, like an equilateral triangle….but sweatier.

Like most of the meatheads in there he was grunting and groaning with every push or pull of the machines he was using, and quite rightly so; he was lifting some heavy shit.

Anyway, as I was leaving I thought I’d wash my hands because, well, I’ve seen some of the people who touch the machines. Most of them are sweaty, and a lot of them are douchbags. I don’t want any of that on me when I leave, especially douchebag.

So I went to the toilets, washed my hands and as I turned around to dry them, in came the equilateral triangle.

He walked[1] to the urinals, barely wedged himself in the ‘normal human being’ sized space and fumbled with the cord of his gym trousers.

At least, that’s the assumption I’m making here. There’s no way I was going in for a closer look just to give validity to this post.

Once he’d (presumably) undone the cord he let out a grunt similar to those he’d demonstrated when lifting the heavy weights before.

Yeah right.  Don’t flatter yourself mate.

I’ve heard the stories about steroids.

image

[1] It was the awkward walk of someone with three huge pillows under each arm and a protein bar inserted rectally.

I’m a stand up guy when I sit down

I’ve written a lot of entries that have been toilet related.  In fact, if you type the word ‘toilet’ in my search bar you will get an almost endless list of posts.

I clearly need to get a lot of things out.

(smirks smugly to himself)

Today’s log (smirk) is no different, and yet it is; it’s about certain observations and forms of etiquette I’ve noticed when using a toilet cubicle [stall].

Firstly there’s the ‘call to attention’.  This is a customary noise you make to alert any new toilet visitor that you’re already there, sat down, mid performance.

This customary noise usually comes in the form of a cough, a clearing of the throat, a loud sniff or the dropping of a big, heavy turd.

Often, when I’m the new arrival to the toilets this ‘call to attention’ comes in the form of general grunting and groaning, like the cubicle occupant is attempting to shit out a small donkey.  Even after I’ve dropped my dignity and taken a seat, the grunting and groaning continues.

Is their turd coming out sideways?

Imagine your grandfather sitting in a big comfy chair after a huge meal; that’s the mix sounds I can best liken it to.

So anyway, regardless of who came in first or last, the next thing I’d like to comment on is the deafening silence that follows when the coughing, grunting and sniffing has subsided.

I mean, you can literally hear a pin drop, let alone anything else.

This is a level of silence that actually hurts your ears.  It’s quieter than being in church, or so I’ve been told; I don’t tend to hear it over the sound of my burning flesh and the screams of a thousand tortured souls.

Or is that just me?

This silence is counterproductive to the task in hand when all you want to do is push out some bum rope, especially as it’s likely you’re in the most echo efficient room in the building.

It’s almost a battle of wills to see who will set free the first fart, or something decidedly more sinister.

This is exacerbated if you have a bad stomach and want to let loose the fizzy beast within.

Personally, I reach around (easy now) and flush the toilet in time with each contraction, evacuating my bowels in perfect time with the masking sounds of the flush.

And while I’m on the subject of masking sounds, it’s a huge frustration of mine when people don’t use the hand dryer KNOWING their fellow man is attempting to curl one out – with sweaty brow and trembling knees – a few feet away.  Instead they opt for a paper towel or trouser wipe.

Give me some cover noise mate, come on.

I’d do it for you.

cover me

Now, I don’t know about you, but I had an epiphany the other day whilst sat on the loo.  I was sitting there, spending a little too long on Facebook and creating those infamous red thigh marks…

red thigh

…when I heard the guy in the neighbouring cubicle stop grunting and groaning and reach for the toilet paper.

In the library-like silence I could heard the rumble of the roll as he pulled at the paper, followed by the soft but definable snap of the paper.

It then occurred to me that the rustling that followed wasn’t him practicing Origami, it was the actual act of wiping his arse.  I could literally hear him smearing poo from his balloon knot.  And what made it worse was that he kept going, returning to the loo roll two or three times for back up.

Now I think about it, the word ‘wipe’ should be replaced with ‘vigorously scrub’.

Now, whenever I hear the rumble of the toilet roll, I know I’m about to hear a guy cleaning out his chocolate tea-towel holder with wads of tissue paper a foot and a half away from me.

I want to hum or sing to drown out the noise, but I feel that would just make the hole[1] situation worse.

Once you’ve had this epiphany and heard that noise, you can’t un-hear it.

You’re welcome.

But all of this pales into comparison to my last observation and experience.

This one has resulted in three words of advice.  Three simple words that will ensure you are not mentally scarred for the rest of your days.

When you’re next sat on the toilet, pay close attention to the floor.

Is it shiny?

Has it been buffed to a mirror-like perfection?

If the answer is yes, and someone joins the cubicle next to you, remember these three little words.

Don’t look down.

my eyes

[1] Not a typo

What’s 9442 miles between friends?

This evening I went to Target which, to my English brethren across the pond, is like Woolworths used to be…but on steroids.

I found what I was looking for and made my way to the till (checkout). 

The guy at the till (checkout), upon hearing me speak, joined the slew of uncultured twats I’ve encountered since moving to America by asking, “So what part of Australia are you from?”

Here we go again.

He could’ve simply asked where I was from, but no; he thought he’d be clever and join the ranks of twattery by asking the question I’ve heard about a million times since I emigrated.

Even if I was from down under, would he have known the area? I doubt it. This guy probably couldn’t find his own arse with both hands. [¹]

It didn’t stop there. He went on to embarrass himself and his country further.

Here is an almost literal account of the entire conversation.

Him – “So what part of Australia are you from?”

Me – “Guess again”

There was a unnecessarily long pause.

Him – “New Zealand?”

Me – “Nope. Where else do they speak ENGLISH a lot?”

He paused again and really thought about it this time.

Him – “Scotland?”

I couldn’t believe it.

Me – “No. Think about it. Where is the most ENGLAND place you can think of that speaks ENGLISH?”

Him – “Well, there’s England but….”

I had to interrupt him. I didn’t want to know what level of ignorance was churning that sentence out of his mouth.

Me – “That’s right, England. I’m English”

He looked at me skeptically and turned to scan my goods though his till (checkout).

Him – “Huh, well you don’t sound English. You sound Australian”.

No I don’t; I sound English.
Do you know how I know I sound English? Because I’m English! That’s where I came from! The Australian accent is completely different.

I was warned that a majority of Yanks thinks we’re either Ozzies or Kiwis, when in fact we’re just Poms.

It amazes me how they can’t tell the difference and then, when corrected, proceed to ask me if I’m sure or – in the case of Captain Cretin tonight – dispute it.

Then, on cue, he decided to tell me about people he knows or is related to that once lived in England or he knew someone in England, or read about England in some book.

I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a fucking atlas.

image

[¹] Also down under