Cannabalism in the bathroom.

May 25, 2004
Filed under:"H" for "Toy"

I don’t know why, it just seems like stuff happens to me while I’m trying to shit here at work. Today, I was well into the article on the former Avalanche players that are now on the Flames and Lightning teams when Joe-Important-Executive zooms in.

I’m not positive, but I don’t think this guy’s ass even touched the seat, he was in and out of there so fast. I was going to offer up part of the Sports section, but he was obviously on his way to do far more important things than read about Calgary’s Ville Nimminen and his lockerroom wit.

That’s cool, I enjoy my quiet time, I think I’ll stay and finish the article on Stephane Yelle and his off-season home here in Denver.

*Rattle*

*Click*

*Rattley-rattle*, *Clickety-click*

“Hmmmm, ” I thought to myself, “self, it sounds like there’s either someone monkeying with the outer door to the bathroom, or a seven-foot mutant rat is chewing it’s way through the ductwork and will soon descend upon me with a guttural growl, causing me to continue what I am doing on a much larger scale, possibly with internal organs being expelled.”

Most people don’t know this about me, but I get scared easily of mutant rats.

Then I figured it probably wasn’t a mutant killer rat. Not noisy enough. Plus, rats don’t normally curse quietly in executive-speak. “Stupid… Gaahd… Sonuva…”

Man, could I teach this guy a thing or two about cussing, even if it was only Yosemite Sam swearing (Sassafrassin’ durn shassamasafrat! Try it, it’s fun for the kids too).

I could hear Joe still playing with the outer door through the inner door, so I figured I’d wash my hands. While I was admiring my crooked smile as well as the bags under my eyes from sleep-deprivation (I’m a damn, sexy bitch), I noticed that Joe was growing more and more frantic. What the hell was he doing out there anyway?

I opened the inner door into the 5 by 5 middle room to see Joe with a doorknob in one hand and a look or raw desperation on his face. His suit and haircut told me he was important, but the sheen of sweat across his forehead and his frightened, quivering eyes told me he really didn’t like being trapped in that little room.

I did what almost anyone would have done, I started giggling. “Whew, got us trapped in here like RATS, do ya?” I can joke now that I know they're not coming to kill me… at least not yet.

He flinched at the mention of rats, started fiddling with the knob, and executive-cursing again, but now with more inflection.

Joe was probably top of his class in Important Executive school, but I’m guessing they never taught “What to do When a Doorknob Breaks”, or even “Simple Mechanics of Doors” because Joe was having an interminably difficult time grasping the concept of “The Doorknob”. You turn the handle, then pull. If the knob comes off in your hand after pulling, try something else.

Joe seemed to think that if he turned it just right, and somehow pulled just right, it would reward his subtle nuances by opening. Instead, Joe ended up with the knob in his hand every fucking time.

Seeing that my giggling wasn’t helping, I started looking around the bathroom for some sort of sharp object with which I planned to push the latch manually and then pull the door open. As I was looking around the stalls and sink for something small and rigid (see last Friday’s entry for why this is funny), I mentioned to Joe that I was very hungry and if we were in here long enough I’d have to eat him.

He did not find this amusing.

He then gave me an I’m-trying-not-to-freak-out-and-you-are-not-fucking-helping look and started knocking on the door. Again, I laughed. These are 8-foot solid oak doors and there are two of them between ourselves and any semblance of humanity. With the central air going, you’d have to knock with a fucking Howitzer for them to hear us in the offices.

All I could figure was that I could break a piece of plastic off of the paper towel dispenser and shape it with my teeth into a suitable tool. Knowing that my bathroom shenanigans would only be further unappreciated if I started destroying dispensers, I had to think of something else.

“Dude, you got anything small and rigid on you?” I say, again stifling a giggle.

Joe looks at me as if I may possibly be the savior that he has been praying for instead of the smartass he was seemingly saddled with. He then produces a set of car keys from his pocket and, with newfound hope and admiration in his eyes, hands them to me.

I find that the key to his BMW (what else would an Important Executive drive?) is the kind that has a really long handle with the lock/unlock, panic, oil slick, and ejector seat buttons on it, and would make for a good tool in lieu of chewing on broken plastic.

I leaned over, wedged the key into the inner knob mechanisms, pushed, hooked my finger in the hole where the knob used to be and pulled. We were freed. Total elapsed time minus me washing my hands and giggling… 15.2 seconds.

Joe’s first look gave me the impression that he thought I was Jesus or at least something holy, sent to deliver him from his 5 by 5 hell.

That lasted until I wondered why this fuckmonkey didn’t try the key trick to begin with and said, “Wow, that was sure a trial, eh?”

Joe then gave me a look that suggested I had just shit in his shoe, which then changed into a lets-keep-this-between-you-and-me look as he hurried off.

Ingrate. He should be happy I didn’t have to eat him.

I tried to tell him that, but he had already disappeared down the stairwell on his way to his Important Executive whatever.