Wednesday, July 23, 2003

To the tune of that Olive Garden commercial song:

Get some salmonella, Ella.
More trichinosis, Moses.
How 'bout some diarrhea, Leah?
Ev'rybody's sick when they come to our house.


Two dootie-related posts in a row. What must the two people that'll read this think of me? It's not even THAT funny. But I've got nothing else to write right now.

Wednesday, July 09, 2003

I may just be a walking truckload of social hang-ups, but I really think using a public or semi-public restroom for the old Number Two is something that should be done only in the direst of emergencies. (Catch the subtle word play?) I can't understand the guy who, day after day, newspaper in hand, strolls down the hall and into the office men's room to drop a few zombies. Is he oblivious to the fact that there are or will be others in the room? That there are others in close proximity to the men's room who can hear his every sigh, groan, and flatulation?

I think it's wrong, all wrong. It means innocent bystanders have to deal with envisioning what's going on in there. Or worse, have to endure that sickly sweet aroma. Have to ingest particles of their filth into our lungs.

Plus it's a waste of a good poop--at least as I see it. One of the highlights of a day should be relaxing in the privacy of your own bathroom, getting some reading done while voiding your bowels. To me it has to be done in complete privacy or else it just can't be enjoyed. The bathroom should become a sanctuary not to be distrubed. If anyone can just barge in while you're meditating...well, it just spoils the ritual. Too many things ruin a good poop if I'm in a public restroom. For one thing, I can't bring reading material. That would make it too obvious to others what going on. Even worse, it's impossible not to be distracted by thoughts like "Who else has been on this toilet? Did that hot intern making copies in the hall hear that? Is dry toilet paper enough for a satisfactory cleansing?"

But I guess those that don't mind probably find going in public relaxing too. Maybe they find a subtle glee in forcing others to endure the cloying stench of their poo. Or maybe they just don't care. Like dogs. Dogs don't care if anyone sees them go. Study those straining canine faces as they drop a steaming packet on a sidewalk or lawn. Is there a trace of embarrassment? None at all.

That's total freedom, my friend. It must be nice.

Monday, June 30, 2003

I appear to be embroiled in an unspoken power struggle at home. Aren't unspoken power struggles the best? Much more interesting than the kind openly referenced by the parties involved. I think it's an anglo-american thing--keeping up the appearance that you're above the issue while secretly seething inside. Not that I or my roommates are very anglo. I guess we're rather non-anglo race-wise, being a jew, a black, and an irishman. We're like a truly tasteless joke, only not as funny. (Side question to aryan-nation types: What's with the white supremacy stuff? Get with it. The "master race" get their asses kicked back in the 1940s.)

My roommates and I treat each other curteously (we're not great friends or anything) and ask/answer the important questions (Do you have the rent check? Yup.). But for about two months now, 80% of the apartment's communal plates, dishes, and flatware--plus three or four pots and pans--have been piled high in the kitchen sink, soaking in a fetid soup of city tap water, rancid tomato sauce and godknowswhatelse.

I refuse to do them, I've broken down too many times before. I'm sure the other two feel the same. They'd probably argue that they've broken down before and likewise refuse to wash them on that principle.

I bought some paper plates, plastic cups, and plastic knives, spoon and forks. I keep them hidden in my room and only use them when no one else is around. Am I avoiding confrontation? Probably. Should I just do the dishes? Yeah. Am I going to? No. I'll be moving out in a month or so.

Saturday, June 07, 2003

Just testing...

Do evil sado-masochists go to heaven when they die?

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