Terror in the Workplace

Today marks a first for me. I'm at work and I'm blogging. Just call me Rob French. Part of me is afraid that I'll get caught and fired, but I'm slightly embarassed to admit that it looks more like I'm doing work right now than in the previous half hour of reading 15 Minute Lunch and fighting valiantly against laughing aloud. It might have been that fear that contributed so much to what just happened.

But I think a little exposition is in order before we get to today's post-worthy nugget. Sometimes I take breaks. I'm only human, and I work better under the 10/5 rule anyway. (Ten minutes of work: five minutes of play. Rinse and repeat.) One of these breaks coincided with a visit to the office's magnificently appointed bathroom. I have to say, as cans go, this one is top notch.

Its heyday was clearly in the 1940's (also when the last redecorating went on), but it's still one of the classier John' s I've encountered*. To give you a general idea of just how classy I mean follow me through this: picture a normal men's room. Now picture floor to ceiling dividers between the urinals. Now imagine that they're made of solid, two inch marble that comes out far enough to obscure even the fattest man that might be urinating next to you. That's how classy. You can actually violate the Man Law article stating that there must be at least one empty urinal between you and the next man because you're practically in a seperate room.

In anycase, I was not so much there to use bathroom as I was to hide in a stall listening to music and playing Block Breaker Deluxe on my cell phone. It was quite a comfortable arrangement and an inconspicuous way to kill a few minutes.

Or it was, until one of my bosses walked in. I have no less than seven and I knew it was the stern one by his tight assed, over-polished shoes. Reflexively I turned down the volume on the iPod afraid he hear it and know I'm there. Would he have cared? Who knows. But the fact is, that dude makes me nervous. Plus, I'm hiding. By definition I don't want my location to be known. I certainly don't want him to know that I'm sitting, pants-up on the toilet playing a cellphone game. So I'm somewhat tense but I'd resolved to go back to playing my game when the cell phone explodes in my hand into a flurry of light, sound and vibration:

"CALL CONNECTED THROUGH THE NSA...(vibration)... COMPLETE TRANSMISSION THROUGH THE NSA...(burst of three audible vibrations)... SUSPENDING YOUR RIGHTS FOR THE DURATION OF THE PERMENANT WAR."

I screamed like a woman. A woman who had just seen IT for the first time whose boyfriend hid in her closet in a clown suit and jumped out at midnight saying "Beep Beep." I screamed like that woman. At the same time I flailed my arms and knocked my iPod off the shelf it was sitting on (I told you they were nice bathrooms) and nearly into the toilet. I caught it by the upper right corner. I didn't know what else to do so I answered the phone and politely informed the caller it wasn't a good time. I neglected to mention that her call very nearly caused the only instance of a man sitting on a toilet and yet still shitting his pants in history.

The boss walked out of the bathroom, apparently not much of a hand washer that one, and I sat there for a good five minutes before I came out (much of it laughing). I think next week I'll be hiding in the record room. And my phone will be on vibrate.

- Scott

* This line works equally well on a prostitute blog.