Shit Talkin'

I don't have time for a Tuesday Top Ten this week because I have been fervently working on my Lollapalooza schedule for most of the last 48 hours.  But that's neither here nor there.  As you may know, over the course of my career, I have a history of strange occurrences in the lavatories of my employers, from fecal phantoms to grown men grunting like Tim "The Toolman" Taylor to shit streaks on the top of the toilet seat.  

Today, I had a new bathroom experience that I felt compelled to share with all of you.  This afternoon, I walked into the bathroom at work, as I tend to do when I need to expel waste from my body at exactly 2:12 p.m. every day.  When I walked in, I heard someone talking, which isn't entirely unusual, given that humans often use speech as a form of communication.  I quickly deduced that the person talking was in a bathroom stall, which I found somewhat strange because it meant one of two things:  (1) he was talking to someone else in the bathroom, which would break the unwritten rule against engaging in a conversation while one party is shitting; or (2) he was talking on his phone, which is just weird.  I noticed that there was no one else in the bathroom, so it was obviously Number 2.  See what I did there?  My presence in the room and purposely loud closing of my stall door did nothing to deter his conversation.  Neither did the massive and clearly audible shit this guy was taking.  If I could hear it from ten feet away, the person on the other end of the phone had to have heard it.  And this guy just kept on talking casually like he was sitting on a park bench and not a toilet in a room with at least one other person who, in retrospect, should have flushed his toilet so that the guy two stalls over would have to explain to the person on the other end of the line exactly where he was.  "Uh, no, I just walked by a geyser. . . . Yeah, there's one in Chicago. . . . No, I won't tell you where it is. . . . Oh, would you look at that.  It just disappeared.  Now it's gone forever and no one will ever have any recollection of it.  You know how people in Chicago are with local geysers. . . . What local geysers, you say?  Exactly my point.  Well, I better get going.  I'm supposed to be hooking up with Don Cornelius. . . . Yeah, we're playing tennis, man. . . . We're playin' on the moon, bitch.  Peace."

We share a bathroom with several other companies on the floor, and I didn't recognize the guy's voice.  I consider this a blessing because I would never be able to look at a co-worker the same knowing that he takes his phone into the shitter and has no problem with talking to friends during what should be the second-most private moment of any man's day.