Friday, June 4, 2010

Internal monologue: Bathroom attendant

When in the hell did we hire bathroom attendants? I guess management finally decided to do something about the mess that happens during "urban" shows. Everybody knows what they mean. I own hats more "urban" than John Witherspoon.

Okay, sitting down. Cockgobbler! Why did I have to eat asparagus last night? It smells like I'm dying. This is what a corpse's piss would smell like. She's got to be noticing this. When I get out of the stall I'm going to shoot her that disarming smile like when I'm shoplifting from Duane Reade. Mostly just that one time. For the whoopsie-doodle. I gotta pray that away later.

Ugh, it's like she can tell I held half of it in. Well sorr-y for being modest, you fetishist. Maybe I should ask her name in case I slip and screw up my back, like Sandra Bullock's character in Crash. And then I realize my only friend is the maid, even though she hates me because I always make her buy flour tortillas, even though the masa are so superior.

Why, why, why are we both reaching for the faucet handle. You're turning it on for me? Does nobody realize how intrusive this is? What kind of a service makes you pay to feel guilty? Oh, Jesus, now we're touching hands. I WILL TURN THE FAUCET OFF MYSELF. Get those paper towels away from me! I have opposable thumbs for a reason, Arrania! I'll be damned if I'll be made to feel like an invalid, just to put another dollar in your coffer. To hell with you and your little basket!

At least when we part and say "thank you," we both mean "fuck you."

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