Good Enough for Government Work Meets My Fearsome Craps

Up until this point, I've remained fairly vigilant about keeping my tales of restroom destruction separate in its own special section entitled My Fearsome Craps. You can catch the link on the sidebar under where it says "The Good Stuff" (in case you never noticed it before) - I update it periodically as a form of writing calisthenics, and in general, because it seems to be the more socially acceptable alternative to taking photographs and showing them to my friends, or for that matter, calling people in from the other stalls to witness my latest grunt sculpture (though, I almost seriously considered calling Tom in from the living room the morning I birthed a unicorn from my ass). Fine, this is gross - at least to some of you who must obviously not know me very well - hence the reason I keep it in a separate section aside from the rest of my life. However, yesterday's tale of restroom destruction was indeed so well-timed that it garnered the coveted spot of the "First Cross-Genre Turd in the History of the BPL."

Thursday was loaded with meetings filled with the usual bullshit and then plenty to spare; the first of which was an all-hands for my entire division. As usual, with an unusually large collection of folks came an unusually fierce barrage of stupid, useless, and irrelavent questions during the allotted Q&A session afterwards, causing the meeting to run a full half hour over schedule (thus rendering it a 2 1/2 hour meeting) and resulting in the promised free lunch thereafter getting cold and gross. While I generally have a hard time fathoming any factors that could possibly make food from Bertucci's any worse than it already is, yesterday I was proven wrong. If there's anything worse than Bertucci's food in general, it's cold Bertucci's. Coupled with the massive stampede of mein hassliche Mitarbitein (that's "my ugly coworkers" in German, and incidentally, part of the one German phrase I have proudly taught myself) gravitating towards either the food or the doors to desperately make their escape, two slices of foul, greasy, partially-congealed sausage-and-ricotta pizza seemed small pittance for sitting vacantly and clapping on queue for over two hours while several lazy coworkers who have made my life miserable through their shit-ass planning and general lack of consideration for other people's time were once again rewarded for their "outstanding work and dedication to improving the company's products." Considering these were merely the minor awards, I'm glad I played hookey the day they had the real award ceremony. Had I been there, I probably would have stood up on my chair and added to the speeches "you realize that there *wouldn't* have been any extra hours "dedicated" to this "effort" if these assholes you're rewarding right now with stock shares had actually thought about the fact that they were wasting other people's time by leaving in the middle of the day to go to the gym, sending out shit they found on YouTube to the office humor list, or browsing through their fornicating-midgets-covered-in-thousand-island-dressing porn during the time that they should have been doing their work!"

As usual, speaking my mind would naturally result in my getting fired. Since I rather like my job (aside from the people), I've taken to mysteriously going MIA during opportunities that might stir my ire. However, I digress.

As a result of this fudge-packed meeting, my competency manager's schedule was entirely jocked, which, as I discovered upon arriving at his office at 2:28 pm, caused him to move my annual performance review all the way until 4:30. I cursed this event, not particularly out of anxiety, but out of the fact that I would have to once again time my arrival at his office perfectly, as per the ancient art of impressing one's boss: arrive too early and you look nervous or eager to please, thereby undermining your cool, aloof, I'm-not-trying-to-impress-anyone demeanor. Arrive late, and well, you're late, and an ass. Arrive right on time, and it looks like you're one who likes to cut close to the deadline. Indeed, arriving just minutes early to an important one-on-one meeting is the most desirable. 2 to 3 minutes to the half hour is about golden for maximal effect. 5 minutes is pushing "eager to please."

In any case, I returned to my desk only to discover an incredibly last-minute meeting invitation from 3 to 4 pm: some kind of kick-off meeting for our new project (read: another bullshit-fest that makes seppuku by 1/4'' nut driver an attractive alternative). As was expected this meeting was also filled with irritating non-sequitur questions causing it to run overtime by 15 minutes. What was not expected, however, was my rapidly developing urge to take a shit.

For, you see, while Bertucci's food normally makes me wish to void my bowels like no other, I'd been working on robot assembly between meetings that day. The robot head casings have this horrible anodized surface for some brilliant mechanical reason beyond my comprehension, which basically maximizes the grinding, chalkboard-to-talons sound and associated reactions each and every time it contacts a rigid surface. Even now as I write this, I'm getting the shivers and horrible metallic taste in the back of my mouth as I recall scraping and breaking a nail during building. This stuff makes a dentist-drill sound like the smooth melodic tunes of Chuck Mangione. As a result, I'd been completely tense and on edge all day, and suffice to say, things were a little backed up in the Callahan Tunnel, what with all the tenseness and clenching. But as the meeting finally wrapped up at about 4:15, I felt the stirrings of a fudge dragon coming to life. Looking at the clock, I had merely 15 minutes until my performance review - time I wasn't sure I was willing to risk at the cost of making my winning entrance at 4:28 pm. The review was only a half hour long, and then I was free - I could handle it. I was a trooper.

The dragon, on the other hand, was having none of that. It grew restless. I knew then that I had a mean one brewing. Only moments later, at 4:18 pm, did I make the executive decision: I rushed to the restroom, intent to force that beastie from its roost before my performance review began.

Throwing the stall door shut, I began to force and grunt, but proceeded to fire blanks. The cheeky bastard was holding out on me! Trapped in a stalemate in an epic struggle against the chocolate wyvern nesting in my underground cavern, I began to laugh. Picture for a moment, if you will, my predicament: perched on a toilet, racing against the clock, I began to finally sympathize with the age-old bathroom-graffiti adage, "here I sit, broken-hearted..." I strained, I farted, I laughed. The flimsy stall shook as I waged this battle of wills against the umber serpent within.

They say that time slows down during moments of great import - a claim that I can only affirm, as it seemed a lifetime passed before me (or, at the very least, about twenty minutes). At long last, I extruded something akin to a charcoal briquet; naught but a token victory, but that was enough for me. I threw my pants on and rushed to my meeting, arriving at exactly 4:27 pm, and catching my manager just returning from picking up a printout of my review writeup. Suave, very suave.

The review itself was nothing to sweat, though the number of farts I was forced to let slip served as a reminder of the fudge dragon lurking within; that he and I had unfinished business and would meet again once more on the battlefield. The struggle had only just begun, and There Can Be Only One.

Further bulletins as events warrant.