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The
pisser in question sported a whole wall of that kind of art, all lined
up in a row. And they were totally surrounded by those blue and white
tiles that seem to positively radiate under fluorescents. If a snake
had sprung up from one of those urinals it wouldn't have surprised me
one bit.
So
I'm taking a nice casual leak when I hear a low level racket going on
in one of the stalls behind me. As everybody knows, it's not unusual to
hear odd noises in a public bathroom, but this transcended the general
background stuff we're all familiar with.
After
I stashed myself and zipped up, I eased around and saw a total of 4
feet showing in stall number 7. I remember that fact because I always
considered "7" to be a magic number. At least until now.
I
thought it strange that nobody else was in the Men's Room; but then
again, the lack of free beer has a big impact on the amount of bathroom
activity. Just to get a better perspective on the situation, I slid
over to the sink and pretended to scrub up. No point in washing your
hands after a pee, but it was a good way to buy some time.
As
soon as I turned on the faucet, whoever was in that stall started
generating more noise, as if a running sink was the all clear signal.
Maybe the sound of water has a tonic effect on people. They say rain is
supposed to help folks sleep. I'll have to look into that.
It
didn't take an engineering degree to figure out that some form of
animal sex was transpiring in that stall. So, I turned the water on
high and left it running while I moseyed over for a closer inspection.
It was like wanting to go investigate a car wreck beside the highway.
When you know something seedy is going on, you just want to take a
peek. So, call me a rubber-necker.
The
owner of one pair of feet was making a guttural vocalization, not
unlike the sound a dog makes when it thinks you're trying to sneak up
on it. The other feet were sticking way out from the stall and into the
room for anybody to see. It's not everybody that has orangutan toes.
Real quiet, I eased into stall number 6, put down the lid on the John, and climbed up. What a sight!
"So,
Judge, how's it going?" I said. "You aren't doing what I think you're
doing, are you?" But that's what it looked like to me.
I
must've said the wrong thing because the guy getting the job let out a
blood curling scream. I think the Judge might've bit down out of shock
at hearing my voice. Or anybody's voice, for that matter.
"Well, I better get back to the party," I said. "Happy Halloween!"
I
almost bust a gut laughing as that fat-assed Judge jumped up and ran
out the door. The other feller just sat there, an empty orangutan mask
looking up at him from the tile floor.
I told you things were getting interesting! Nothing like following the Rules of Procedure, huh Judge?
The
rest of that Halloween sailed along real smooth. Jasmine, always good
for a surprise or two, materialized a pint of George Dickel and pretty
soon even that band of hicks started sounding half decent. Just to
shake things up, I launched into a spate of dancing. You guessed it:
the Monkey. Life is funny like that - one minute you'd pay to be
anywhere but the spot you're in; the next minute, it's Hee Haw Time.
By the way......place your right thumb on the end of your nose, palm in. Now curl down
your
ring finger and pinkie. That leaves your first two fingers sticking up.
Ok. Now, keeping your thumb where it is, wiggle those two fingers up
and down.
You just spelled "orgasm" in sign language.
Try it out on a friend.
And
now here he was dressed up like a Halloween orangutan, hopping around
with his arms hanging low to his sides. I guess he ain't a fan of the
Discovery Channel. If he was, he'd know that only chimpanzees act like
that.
I
have to break in and say that Halloween is the one night of the year
when Jasmine outshines everybody. While most folks go to a lot of
trouble to affect some bizarre disguise, Jasmine doesn't bother. Every
day is a costume day to her. I've seen her go out of the house on an
average weekday wearing a slinky black mask, just like Zorro's, only
smaller. Can you see that? It always works for her; but I wouldn't do
it.
My private Halloween Theory is this:
People tend to wear Halloween costumes that actually give away their true personalities.
Maybe
that explains why Judge Farrel was hobbling around like a drunk
chimpanzee. I hope he reads this because I'd like to take this moment
to say, "Up yours, Judge!"
The
Halloween Committee must've been low on funds this year because I
didn't see a single can of free beer. That's low in my book. At least
they hired a band, although it was impossible to tell if the guys were
in costume or not. What's with these new bands? You'd assume,
considering that I drive the oldest pick-up truck in my neighborhood,
that I'd be a fan of Country music. Not true! But that's the only style
of music the Halloween band understood. How many ways can you play G,
C, and D? Not many.
Last year a big tornado appeared and tore up half the neighborhood.
Good thing for me, it wasn't my half. That twister must've formed
real fast and jumped to the ground before anybody knew
what was happening. Maybe people watching TV
got some advance warning.
I wouldn't know. The idea that television is a forward step
in man's evolution never sat right with my way of thinking.
They don't call it the idiot box for nothing.
As
this was the 1st Anniversary of the Tornado From Hell, people decided
to make speeches to commemorate the event. According to all reports,
the tornado, while a real tragedy, had succeeded in "bringing the
community together." One lady, dressed as The Wicked Witch of the West
(and she is, too), even went so far as to say a few words in sign
language. That got a rise out of the crowd and the drummer hit a roll.
I doubt anybody noticed, but Jasmine signed back some obscure remark
about silence being golden. I thought her last sign looked sort of
queer; like she was flinging "the bird" at The Wicked Witch of the West.
When the band kicked back in, I figured a run to the Men's Room would break up the boredom. That's when things got interesting.
There's
something about the average Men's Room that brings out the worst in
people. At least, that's what I think. Maybe it's the morbid
fluorescent lights. Studies show that lighting is important. Try taking
a first date home and see how hot they are to fornicate under a
fluorescent light. If it turns out that they are, you might want to
introduce them to a good psychiatrist.
Or
maybe it's the smell. What is that stuff they use to sanitize pit stops
with, anyway? It must be cheap, because every Men's Room I ever peed in
used the same stuff. Few odors could be more recognizable and repulsive
at the same time.
My
other theory is that urinals have a particular negative impact on the
brain and cause otherwise normal people to start acting strange. Didn't
some famous artist named Marcel hang a urinal on the wall in a museum
and they called it art? There you go!
NedMudd lives in Birmingham, Alabama. He is a regular contributor to The Zephyr.
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