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Grampa Paper Towel
I am normally not one to frequent the secondary commode while at work. But sometimes when you eat a big lunch the rumble hits you at the right spot and it is just time to go. This exact situation happened to me last Tuesday; so, around about 1:20 PM, I grabbed a paper ass gasket and hit up the third shitter in. See, there are four shitters in the bathroom -- One, Two, Three, and the handicapped one is Four. I hit up Three because that leaves enough room for someone to create a biohazard up One or Four and still give you a barrier.
I knew that time was of the essence, because two things happen between 1:30 and 2:00 PM:
The Mexican restroom wrangler comes in and cleans every fucking surface. He will even stick the mop under the door and under your feet while you are taking a shit. He pretends not to speak English, so no amount of bitching and complaining does anything. And he ALWAYS cleans the crapper out at shit prime time -- right after lunch, when shit hits you.
Grampa Paper Towel. This motherfucking guy here is the bane of my goddamn existence. I honestly think this fucking putz waits for me to have to take a shit, because every time I go in the bathroom this motherfucker is three steps behind me. 1:30 is his time to shine.
I knew better, but I couldn't fucking hold it.
So there I am, wreaking my own puny little version of Armageddon on the toilet when Grampa Paper Towel walks in. My wiping went in to overdrive, like it was an Olympic sport and I was trying to time qualify.
The nice thing about Grampa Paper Towel is that he is like a bomb with a fuse. When he walks into the bathroom he washes his hands for twenty seconds and then slicks down his comb over and finger-rubs his teeth. This gives you one minute. (You can see all of this through the cracks of the door; but live through it once and you will never watch again.) After this, he then performs the feat that gives him his name. My man starts tugging on the paper towel dispenser like it is going out of style, like he is trying to hit the jackpot on a slot machine. I am dead serious -- this "dispensing" lasts a good two minutes, and he must have six or seven human-size (six foot!) lengths of paper towels that he jams into every pocket in his pants. It looks like he is making a life preserver out of his pockets. To this day I have not figured out -- nor had the audacity to ask -- what in the fuck he is doing. Quite frankly, I probably don't want to know. All I can tell you is that once Grampa Paper Towel is done making his Bounty force field, your time is fucking up. He will then waddle his big ass to the stall IMMEDIATELY next to you -- whichever one he has to choose to make sure that his ass is as close to your nasal cavity as humanly possible.
Now normally when I hear Grampa Paper Towel enter the bathroom, I turn into the toilet version of a captain of the gold medal rowing team. WIPE! WIPE! WIPE! WIPE! Jettison! Flush! Wash! Dry! GONE! And I am out of the bathroom like Carl Lewis off the starter pistol. But last fucking Tuesday I was in the middle of one of those famous shits -- you know, the kind that won't stop giving out autographs? And I couldn't fucking leave, not without giving more attention to cleaning the Hershey truck's tires.
Oh fuck, here comes Grampa Paper Towel. The old man sat in Two, literally six inches and a partition away from me, and proceeded to have a burial at sea for whatever god-awful creature died inside of him. This man farted so loud and so hard, not only did it echo off the porcelain, but I actually felt the vibration in my feet. I immediately went into DEFCON 5 -- big breath and hold -- and began clawing at my anus with toilet paper like I was trying to dig a hole. All the time thinking, "FUCK YOU, OLD MAN! You haggard motherfucker!!"
Still a mark -- fold, swipe -- still a mark -- come on asshole, let it go!!!
Right as I hit the clean finish line, my eyes started watering and my head started bobbing back and forth like my naïve inner child was gasping for the air that he thought still existed in this purgatory called the men's room. Flush, button, zipper, belt, stall door. At the sink, breathe in -- cough cough cough -- you've got to be kidding me! Grampa Paper Towel had actually saturated every ounce of the nauseating odor of his excrement the full ten feet needed to reach to the sink. With my supposed life-saving sink breath I drew in an odor that was still so thick it was like I was tonguing a turd. If I thought I could have braved the smell I would have kicked open the stall and decked that old shit monger. But since I was obviously outmatched, I quickly washed and dried my hands (with the single sheet of paper towel that was left).
Bolting from the nightmare, I reached for the door just as the Mexican restroom wrangler opened it wide. He must have seen the horror on my face. I saw his nostrils flair as he attempted to lend his olfactory expertise in judging the tactile torture of my soul. As he breathed in, through sixty years of dirty fingernails, picking mushrooms, unclogging toilets, mopping urine-coated floors, hell, even inhaling every carcinogenic cleanser that the people at Ajax ever created, you could watch as Grampa Paper Towel's feces broke this bruiser of the bowel bowl down like a sack of refried frijoles. As his cigarito-stained upper lip quivered in horror and disgust, he held the door wide for me, and then followed me out of the bathroom without a word.
I haven't shit at work since.