Bathroom Woes



The mens washroom at my place of employment is a real horrorshow (not to be confused with real horrorshow, which is the exact opposite of my intent). I cannot speak for that of my female coworkers, but judging by some of the smells that come wafting hence, I can only assume a similar sight lies in wait beyond that foreboding orange door. Revolting — and the last thing anyone wishes to endure in the dying hours of their otherwise nausea-free shift. I try to avoid the entire area during that daily juncture, when a full complement of workers sit pod-bound and thus occasionally stall-bound — the crossover period, shall we say — but duty, as they say, calls.

During this time, between five and seven, the bathrooms can become downright overpopulated and the air quality takes a hit — a boot to the groin, if you will. It becomes unbearable. The worst sorts of human smells imaginable, all mixing together in a sensory stew that would gag a maggot.

Once you get settled into your business, the stall interior becomes a feast for the eyes. Granted, not a very good feast. Sort of like barbecued dog food. Have you ever really taken a look at your surroundings when crouched in a quasi-public bathroom stall? Horrible, horrible stuff. The people I work with are absolute barbarians. Dried finger-flung boogers hang from the institutional white cinder block walls. The flimsy metal door is smeared with shit of “beneath fingernail” origins, judging by the shape. What the hell was going on? Just calm down, son. There is never any reason, outside of plumbing related endeavours, to become soiled with one’s own excrement while at work. At least have the decency to use a piece of toilet paper.

Maybe the culprit used this as a means of entertainment, a “break up the routine” exercise. Or it may have been mere thickheaded laziness. Either way, the results sit approximately one and a half feet from my face at least once every night. No one ever cleans it. What, you think I should take it upon myself? Hell no, friend. I might as well eat a bag of frozen, preformed hamburger patties. Sheer madness.

But I won’t change stalls — it’s the best one, the only one with a wall on one side. This allows for more room and room is everything isn’t it? Unfortunately there isn’t sufficient quantities thereof in this shit shower of a room. Things both animate and non are in far too close a proximity to one’s person at all times like some sort of invisible bathroom fog of unpleasantness. It sucks.

So maybe I should cut down on the fibre.


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