The Loo

Before you judge me for writing another "Office Place Bathroom" story, just think of all the non-office place bathroom stories I've written. Focus on those (but still read this).

9:51am--I sit down for my morning massage. That's what I call my morning visit to the john. Not really sure what massage has to do with it, though--maybe it comes from the motion my innards employ to expel the gray matter. That's right--gray.

I am in the second stall, the handicap stall, because the first stall is occupied. I saw on an Oprah episode that, on average, the first stall is the least used because everyone thinks it's the most frequently used since it's the closest to the bathroom door, so they all move on to the next stalls. Makes sense. So I always shoot for the first stall. If it's taken, however, the handicap stall isn't a bad consolation. It's so spacious. If I end up in the handicap stall, I pretend that I'm in a bathroom in Dubai and that there are beautiful naked dolphins outside waiting to wash my hands by spewing clean, clear water out of their mouths (not out of their blow holes like you probably expected) once I come out.

As I sit there, I see a man (my worries that I might have accidentally entered the wrong bathroom are a put to rest) 's feet walk to the sink that is directly in front of my stall. At the same time, the latch on my stall's door somehow comes undone and the door slowly and smoothly swings wide open, stopping at the end of the arc. Being in the spacious handicap stall, the door is much too far away for me to lunge at. The stranger turns and looks at me. We make eye contact, him on his feet and I on my stool.

Rather than quickly turn away in shame, something amazing happens. No words are spoken, but we have a conversation with our eyes, man to man. He understands the potential humiliation I might be suffering as physics cruelly exposes my highthighs to all outside of my mis-assumed sanctuary, and I in turn comprehend deeply his need to be able to walk to the sink without being forced by the terrible humor of the universe to watch another man shart. The mutual understanding is immediately and profoundly felt, and we are both calmed. My new friend gives me a wise nod, then closes the door for me. As it connects, I lean forward and close the latch, this time making sure it goes all the way in, a little worried that I might drop a loose doodgie on my ankled pants. But I return with honor and without droppage to my porcelain chair, grateful for the power of the unspoken word, and for the innate desire of men to bond in the bathroom.

Voulez-vous Manger la Mangue?

The first time I ever ate a mango I was in Mexico. I had never seen one before. I knew it was a tropical fruit, but I didn't understand the difference between mango, papaya, passion fruit, Richard Simmons, or guava. I knew they were all exotically fruity, but had no idea what they looked or tasted like. It's not that I had never had mango juice or guava juice or whatever--I'm sure I had had it throughout my life whenever I drank Ocean Spray or Capri Sun. It's just that I didn't recognize it for the specific fruit that it was. Rather, I just understood it was tropical and that's as far as I cared to think about it.

When a lady in Mexico gave me my first mango, I took it in my hand and stared at it, not knowing exactly what to do with it. How was I going to eat this slightly almondy-shaped, softball-sized food? It was covered in a thick skin, but by the feel of it I felt I could easily penetrate it without the help of a knife. What did it look like inside? Was it full of hundreds of tiny seeds? What color would it be? But my time for wondering was up. This nice woman had so generously offered me of her substance, and I could tell by the look in her eyes that she was very eager for me to partake. My strong sense of not wanting to offend (I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "Hasen, not wanting to offend? Then what's up with all those dirty jokes and obscene gestures he does in public?" Hey, why don't you just keep focused on the story and quit tryin' to ruin it for everyone, huh?) compelled me to take action.

I bit into that mango like John Candy biting into a huge steak, cooked or raw. The skin was tough, but I had resolved to eat the whole thing in front of this lady, so it didn't deter me. Imagine Godzilla breaking through a roadblock of a couple of small wooden sawhorses. I chomped, slurped, and tore my way through the skin, through the fruity meat, all the way down to the large single seed in the center, where I stopped. It was obvious I wasn't supposed to eat the seed.

That mango was delicious. I had never had anything like it. I had never heard of anything like it. Until that point, the best tasting fruit I knew about was peaches in Wheaties. I looked up at the generous woman who had shared her fruit with me (there's no metaphor there, in case you were looking) and she just kind of stared back in wonder, eyes wide, then an awkward smile crooked itself across her face. I thanked her for the gift, and left. When we were out of earshot of her front door, my friend named Elder, in very broken English, asked me why in the good name of gospel gumption did I do that.

"Do what?" I replied.

"Eat the skin of the mango."

Sleeping On the Job

I was so tired at work yesterday that I decided to take a nap. I work in a standard office, you know. There's no place to lay down. So I decided to put on my sunglasses, slouch down in my chair, put my hand on my mouse (no penis jokes please, this is a family friendly website), and pointed my face towards my computer screen. I then zonked out for about 15 or 20 minutes. The funny thing about it is that I share a desk with someone (it's a big desk). She sits about a foot and a half away from me, right smack dab next to me, and she never noticed I was sleeping. I think I've stumbled onto something great.

Memorial Day at the Salt Flats

This was one harkuva weekend. Vaccuum tossing, nudie races, corpse carrying, salt licking.