Huge F-ing Dilemma - The Second Part.

The First Part is Here.

Okay folks,

I have been appropriately chastised for not timely posting what happened with the poop situation. By all means, if you want to join in chastising me, feel free to leave me a comment, e-mail or instant message me throughout the work day. I like it. A whole hell of a lot. However, in an effort to avoid further rebuke I am here at 11:30 at night writing a story about a girl that poops in others’ houses and freely deposits the paper with which she wipes her anus in my trash can.

Before we begin - you should know two things. First, I fell asleep watching Studio 60 a bit ago and woke back up, so I am a little tired and a bit out of it. Second, I am drinking a nice warm cup of coffee while listening to August and Everything After, the Counting Crows debut album from 1994. At this very moment Rain King is playing. I don’t know what 1994 was for you, but for me it was a pretty fucking fantastic year. I was 18 and starting college, and August and Everything After, along with Pearl Jam’s Vs., were the soundtrack to that year.

"What is the fucking point?" you ask. Well, there is none. I just wanted to let you know what I am doing at this moment. It is helping us bond, and become best friends forever (BFF). Now we can e-mail each other about our hopes and dreams. We can intimately discuss who you have a crush on, or whether George should be with Callie. When you are lonely late at night you can call me and we can discuss whether Ingrid Bergman should have gotten on that plane or stayed with Humphrey Bogart. I am pouring my heart out here people. Show a little appreciation.

Without further ado, here is how the evening went down:

Near 7:00 o’clock on Friday evening, Jason, Susan and Jamie show up at my place. Prior to their arrival your hero surreptitiously removed the trash can from the bathroom. Let me set the scene a little. My house is a little large for me. At last count it is a 3000 square feet, four bedroom, 2 and a half bath, recently constructed suburban home. (Note: the size of my house has nothing to do with the story, I just wanted to make you New York City folks a little envious.) Anyway, my living room is downstairs. If you go down the hallway a bit from the living room I have a half bathroom, which guests tend to use. There are no cabinets within the half bath, only a commode (I like that word) and a sink. Further down the hallway is the door to my bedroom. If you go through my bedroom, another door leads to my bathroom. Inside my bathroom is another commode, and this one is enclosed in a small little room. I call it the pee room.

So the plan was to watch a couple of episodes of Extras, and drink like mad cows. About a half hour into the evening Jamie decides she has to go. So I try to keep my eye on the bathroom door so I can enter as soon as she leaves. I try to hang just outside of the door because I was a little overzealous and obsessed with what was happening in there. I would estimate she was in there the normal time it takes a girl to expel urine from her body. However, there was no flush. The door opened and out she came.

I gave her a little nod, and then went in like I was waiting for the bathroom. The water in the toilet was calm, and didn’t look as if it was in a post-flush refill. The sink was dry, so I know no hand washing occurred. The point is, she didn’t go. I did a little look around to make sure there was nothing stashed anywhere, but there was not. I don’t know what there is to do in a bathroom besides piss and shit, but maybe she was doing some girl-thing in there. I don’t know. But I know she didn’t urinate.

Okay, now lets fast forward to Garrett at five beers later. I saw Jamie go down the hallway to the bathroom a few times, but at those particular moments in time, I did not care about what she was doing with her vagina-wiping paper. My only thought was to consume more alcoholic beverage. Which I did with abandon and vigor.

To make a long story short, I had sex with Jamie. It was amazing, and a little magical. I cannot even describe it as “sex.” It was “making love.” I love her with a passion that I cannot describe in words.

Are you fucking kidding me? I did not have sex with the poop girl. I did discover something though, after my little friends were gone.

As soon as they left I went down through my bedroom door (which was closed before, but now open) and through my bathroom door (which was closed before, but now open) and into the Pee Room (which was closed before, but - well it was still closed). As I stood there and urinated in a drunken stupor I looked down at the trash can to discover several wadded, balls of urine-soaked toilet paper. “Well, fuck me!” I believe were my exact words.

She fucking switched bathrooms on me. I am astounded. Dumbfounded, you might say.

So that is it. This girl so feels the need to deposit her excrement wiping substances into something other than the toilet that she has to change bathrooms to find one with a trash can. I no longer think it has to do with being a farm-girl or with plumbing in any way. I think she must have some kind of weird psychological ailment or sick fetish. Maybe it is like when animals mark their territory, and if I went to her apartment I would see a Shrine to Garrett. She comes to my house so she can deposit pee to mark my house as hers, and every night she writes in her pink diary, "I am one step closer to becoming Mrs. Garrett Reid. Mrs. Garrett Reid. Mrs. Garrett Reid."

So what do you think of that?

This Is Me Stalling

I promise to provide a semi-lucid post today regarding Friday's poop-girl antics. I started writing it last night, but just could not finish it because I got tired. (That should read: I couldn't find any good porn on the internet so I had to turn to my much-loved stock of Blair from The Facts of Life photos, and subsequently fell asleep dreaming of Blair's flowing golden hair.)

In the mean time, I give to you The Funniest Thing to Ever Be in a Movie:

Lunch Plans

I want to eat at a little Greek diner downtown, but I don't know the best way to pronounce 'Gyro.'

I polled the office, and received four different proposed pronunciations. The ordering pressure is too great. Maybe I'll just get a slice of pizza.

In other news, I invited Jason, Susan and Jamie over on Friday night. I am going to remove the trashcan from the bathroom, and see how things go down. "Go down" was a little pun there. Get it?

In related news, I think Jason's Susan thinks I have a thing for Jamie now because I specifically invited Jamie over. I couldn't tell Jason the plan because he might tell Susan. You can't trust men when it comes to keeping secrets from their girlfriend/wife. Women have a way of getting secrets out of you. They have secret super powers (I suspect the secret super powers have something to do with the vagina). Women are all like Wonder Woman and her Lasso of Truth. (Except it is more like the Vagina of Truth). Whatever. I'll end now because the post is getting exponentially more stupid by the word.

My Coffee

I am not really a scientist like some of you, but I think it may be a bad sign that my coffee ate through my Styrofoam cup and leaked all over my desk.

From this occurrence, I have logically reached the only two possible reasons for what has happened. One, someone is trying to kill me by poisoning my coffee. This is a very real possibility. I just added up the number of people who might want to see me dead. I stopped counting at number 9, and I wasn't even through co-workers and on to ex-girlfriends yet.

The second possibility is that someone is trying to slowly drive me insane by poking very small needle holes in the bottom of my coffee cup while I am not paying attention. This would obviously involve a very elaborate scheme of distracting me while accomplices turn my cup into a sieve. Normally, I would not consider this a realistic possibility, but I have done it to someone before. (On a side note: the results of that prank were fantastic. The prankee eventually began using two cups stacked together - then when that didn't work, he quit drinking coffee altogether because he was convinced the coffee was eating holes in his stomach. On a second side note: I felt bad that he spent over $1500 in medical bills to have his insides scanned and checked out. On a third side note: It is good to get your insides scanned from time to time - so I probably did him a favor. He should thank me - if he ever found out what I did).

Of course, there is always the possibility that they make the coffee really, really strong and really, really hot up here, and I am killing myself by drinking it. But that would just be kind of ridiculous.

Another Not Funny, Boring Post About Work.

1. “That is the dumbest idea I have ever heard.”

2. “Did you even read the article?”

3. “It sounds like you need to research this a little before you talk to anyone about it.”

4. “Next time, think things through before you come in to my office and talk to me.”

5. “What the fuck are you even talking about? You are not even making sense.”

6. “You are staring at me like you are confused. Do you need to go to your office and think about what I said, and then come back so we can finish talking?”

7. “We don’t pay you to write memos, we pay to you analyze a subject and give us your opinion.”

8. “This memo includes way too much detail. The CEO doesn’t want to read this much. Shorten your memo to be a summary of the subject.”

9. “Did you even read your own memo before you brought it in to me?”

These are all things that were said to me in a five minute meeting I had with my boss this morning. Last Thursday, I was asked to provide a memo to him on a particular topic. I spent exactly 31.7 hours researching the subject matter and then drafting a 12 page memorandum on the subject. The memo was broken down into 4 subparts, and 2 of those subparts had 2 sub-subparts each. At the end of my memo, I provided a page and a half of opinion regarding the course of action the company should follow given what my research revealed.

I dropped the memo in my boss’ office at 10:00 a.m. this morning. At 10:15 he called me in to discuss it. I guess he is fast to be able to read the 12 pages and analyze them so quickly.

Now I am back in my office with the daunting task of interpreting what my boss said to me and converting that into a actual changes to the memo. Given the fact that the memo was exactly what he asked me to do in the first place, and two other people from my office read it last night and characterized it as “excellent.” I am not sure where to go from here.

Since I couldn’t respond to the torrent of profanities coming towards me from my boss, and did not want to risk my job by pointing out what an idiot he is - I will provide my replies for your reading pleasure. (And yes I realize that blogs bitching about work are really dull - and a little stupid. I am probably 10 minutes away from being fired. Fuck it.)

Refer to the numbering system at the top of this post:

1. I am sorry you feel that way. My idea is pretty much the only option the company has, unless it wants to get sued for millions. The research is clear.

2. Yes, asshole. If you would read page three of the memo, I spent three paragraphs discussing the article and providing my thoughts about why it does not apply. I am sorry that your cursory review of both the article and my memo do not reconcile with your non-researched “gut” feeling about the proper course to take.

3. Are you fucking kidding me with this shit? That is what the 12 page memo is. My fucking research. How clearer can it be? The first fucking sentence of the memo says, “my research reveals. . .”

4. Think things through? I spent four days thinking about this. I worked for 8 hours on Sunday thinking about this. Your telling me to think about things makes me want to jab this gold-plated letter opener into your jugular.

5. I am talking about everything that is on page 5. I am talking about what the law is. Have you heard of a statute? It is sometimes referred to as a “law.” These “laws” control what the members of our society can and cannot do. Sometimes, if companies break the law, they can get sued. Lawsuits are things companies don’t like. They cost money. Stop rambling about this nonsense and fucking listen to what I am saying. Read the fucking memo.

6. This is not a confused look. I am wondering how quickly I can get over your desk to stab this gold-plated letter opener into your jugular.

7. Jesus Christ. That is what a memo is. My research and opinions in written form. Would you rather I had a dramatic reading of my research at 3:00 in the West Auditorium. Maybe I could find a drummer and trumpet player, and recite my research in the form of a beat poet like Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer.

8. Those things on the bookshelf in the library. That is the subject matter. The memo is the summary of what is in those books. Now you want a summary of the summary. How about I draw it in crayon.

9. Well considering the fact that I wrote it - typed it myself even - yes I read the memo that I wrote. Then I had two other people in the office read it and let me know of any mistakes or gaps in my logic. Then I ran Grammatik and Spell Checker. Then last night I proof read it three times. Did you notice something specific or were you being an asshole just for the fucking fun of it?

The sad part about all of this - It is just another day in the office. That is actually part of my job description. Another of my bosses told me once: “We pay you a lot of money to take shit from us.” So there you have it.

Disclaimer: None of this really happened. Any similarities between this story and actual events is purely coincidental. I don’t even have a boss. My name is not Garrett. I have never had a meeting with anyone. I don’t even know how to use the computer. What is this “memo” of which you speak? If anyone in my place of employment finds this, it is obviously a libelous attempt to sabotage my job by one of my co-workers. Probably Jim. That fucker.

A Story

I logged in this evening because I had a fantastic idea to write about something enormously embarrassing, yet funny, that happened to me once. After my last post, I have become acutely aware that you all perversely enjoy mocking my humiliation and pain. In fact, you are all perfectly okay with the notion of aiding my neurosis by further insinuating traits of gayness. So thanks for all that. I also realized that you are all homophobic, but that is a post for another day.

I finished the first paragraph of said post when I realized that said post was a horrific mistake. Why should I further humiliate myself with a story about “alleged” sexual inadequacy, public ridicule, and failed revenge? However, I need to write something tonight. I hurt my back yesterday afternoon and I have a terrific buzz caused by a mixture of Rolling Rock and Lortab. This combination of substances has given me the motivation to move from my couch to the computer, and begin to type. Of course, I can't see the letters because they all blur together, and so far I have only spelled 12 words in the last two paragraphs correctly. That is what the fucking spell checker is for - drunk, drugged morons who type fast and use words they don't understand, much less know how to spell.

Perhaps rather than write about my own humiliation I should write about the humiliation of others. There I have it. The most embarrassing thing to have occurred to someone close to me, in my presence.

In 1993 I dated a girl named Shelley. This was a fairly serious high-school type relationship. The kind where you feel certain that you will stay with this person for ever, and you don’t understand why your parents are so nonchalant about the seriousness of your feelings for this person. In retrospect, most of these feelings were caused by your overwhelming desire to have sex on a regular basis, and in a way that didn't involve the use of gymnast-like positions in your girlfriend's Ford Festiva. Well Shelley, being in a serious high-school type relationship, wanted to meet all of my family and attend important family events, such as holidays, weddings and funerals.

In 1993 Easter fell on April 11. For the entirety of my life my family spent Easter Sunday with my Grandmother in a very small town (technically not even a town, but a “community”) in west Texas. For the entirety of my life my Grandmother attended a very small Baptist church in her community. I believe the average attendance at this church was less than 30 people. I believe the average age of the church members was 68. So it was a very big deal when my moderately large family attended church with my Grandmother. It was an especially big deal on April 11, 1993 when Shelley attended church with us.

At small Baptist churches, the end of the service is punctuated by an “invitation.” Following the invitation the church pastor asks a member to lead the congregation in prayer. During the prayer the pastor goes to the back of the room so that he can shake each person’s hand on his way out. Such was the scene when Shelley was exiting the church. The sanctuary to the church exited straight outside where there was a small covered porch-type area. There were five steps down on to the grass in front of the church. Shelley and I were one of the first 10 people out of the door. This is when Shelley began to fall down the steps. Shelley was wearing, as girls were known to do in 1993, a flowery sun dress thing. As she fell she tried to brace/stop her fall. She ended facing up, and falling backward down the steps. When she hit the grass, her legs were spread eagle, her dress was above her hips, and 20 people were behind me gasping at what was happening. When the 20 people crowded in to help/stare they were treated to a lovely view of Shelley’s white, silk, g-string undergarment with little red hearts all over it. This vision was further enhanced by the fact that Shelley was on her back at the bottom of the stairs, with her feet near the top of the stairs.

On the drive home, Shelley cried.

I know - it is a really, really fucking sad story. But what can I say - I am kind of a bad person, and this story makes me chuckle at least 6 times a year when I think about it.

This was, in my opinion, the most humiliating thing I have ever seen. 20 senior citizens staring at your silk-clad goods staring back at them as they exit a sermon about the resurrection of their savior. That is some comedy right there. I like to wonder about how many men got in trouble with their personal lord and savior about the impure thoughts they had about a 17 year old Shelley and her silky underpanties that day. I would guess about 65%. Shelley was pretty hot. The percentage would be greater, but the other 35% didn't have vision good enough to see what happened.

Something Weird Happened to Me at Work on Friday.

Something weird happened to me at work on Friday. (Don’t you just love it when the title of the post is the same as the first sentence? It meas: “This guy is not fucking around - something weird really did happen to him on Friday, and, by God, I had better listen up!” Only you should know that the weird thing was not REALLY that weird, just moderately weird, and this story is not that good.) I had a meeting in the next building over from mine. So at 3 o’clock I take a little stroll on over. The waiting area is fairly large with two couches, a coffee table and two chairs. There are magazines strewn about the end tables and such. There is also a large desk with a receptionist sitting behind it. The receptionist is very hot. This, my little friends, is where things get weird.

I announce myself and the subject of my meeting to the hot receptionist. I am terrible at describing how someone looks, but because I love you and want you to be happy, I will give it a shot. She was about 5'6 or so, with short dark hair. Her hair was not so short as to be the spikey/lesbian kind of hair, nor was it long enough to be called shoulder length or anything similar. When she looked down at her keyboard, it hung about her face, but it seemed to magically stay far away enough from her face that it did not necessitate her brushing it back constantly. That's it - she had magic hair. Short, dark, magic hair. She was wearing a black shirt and black skirt. The shirt, however, was very low cut to reveal a significant amount of cleavage. This little detail made me ever so happy. I would describe her look as a 50s’ retro hipster look. With her skirt, she wore bright red heels. After I announced myself to her, she dialed the appropriate person and asked if I would like to have a seat. I did like to have a seat. So I sat.

Upon sitting, the hot receptionist comes over to where I was sitting, ostensibly for the purpose of straightening the magazines. She says something about the weather, I respond with a joke. She asks if I like working for my company. She tells me she is going to school at night to be a court reporter. I tell her I know a court reporter and she likes her job very much. She asks where I went to school. She sits down on the chair adjacent to my couch. Things are going very well for our hero (me). Then she tells me that she was “hoping to go to a movie tonight.” I take this as my cue, and think of how best to ask her out. Her next statement was: “Hey, you’ve probably seen it already, what did you think of that movie ‘Brokeback Mountain?' It is on cable tonight."

I was already thinking of what breakfast I was going to make her the next morning. I was mentally taking inventory of prophylactics in my home. I was already trying to decide which boxer shorts are my “sexiest.” I had already sized her up to see what sexual positions she might be interested in. (Just and aside - I determined that a 25 year-old hipster would be interested in the majority of sexual positions that I could accomplish - and would likely teach me three more). She then asked me what my thoughts were on the most well-known gay movie of all time. She also added, “hey, you’ve probably seen it already.” I can only assume that she assumed that I am a gay person.

I, of course, realize that not everyone who watched Brokeback Mountain is gay. However, I cannot imagine a circumstance where a single girl would ask a single straight man about Brokeback Mountain. Unless I saw it on HBO when would I have seen Brokeback Mountain? It is not really much of a "date movie." I couldn't go and see it with another guy. (As another aside - I did watch it on HBO and thought it to be an okay movie - except for the part where the one gay cowboy spits into his hand and, presumably, wipes it on his gay cowboy penis before giving it to the other gay cowboy. That part just made me a little queasy.)

So I am not sure what happened there. However, I did spend the rest of the afternoon asking co-workers, “Do I seem gay to you?” or “Do I have a gay-vibe” or “Do you think these shoes are ‘gay shoes?’”

I don’t really have a problem with someone thinking I am gay, with two exceptions:

1) If women I think are hot think I am gay, this is not a good situation for getting me some action.
2) If some women think I am gay, then surely some gay men must also think I am gay, and no gay man has ever asked me out (or even for some gay roadside bathroom sex). Is there some reason I am not attractive to gay men? That kind of pisses me off.

I have no ending for this post. I told her I had not seen the movie. She went back to her desk. I couldn't concentrate the entire meeting because I was thinking about this situation. My co-workers think I am strange (or stranger than they already thought) because I asked them about potential gayness all day.

Huge F-ing Dilemma

I’ve got a big-time dilemma on my hands here, and what would a blog be without seeking advice from readers. Just so you can stay up on the game, here is the format we’ll follow. First, I will give a little bit of background story to set the stage and illustrate the mood and feel of the story. Second, I will hit you with the big scenario which lead to the big-time dilemma. (Should “big-time” be hyphenated? I don’t know but I bet Lover and Fighter will tell me!) Then I will present the dilemma to you and pose a question regarding said dilemma. Finally, I will close the post with further witty observations, more questions, and general confusion. All of this will be highlighted with a consistent lack of cognizable writing style and punctuated by a general lack of skill. On second thought, maybe I should not have revealed the secret code. All I need is tens of hundreds of copy cat bloggers out there seeking to capitalize on my success. Well, what’s done is done. Here we go:

Last week I invited my friend Jason over to my place to have some drinks (*editor’s note: please take notice that Jason is not his real name, but his name does begin with a ‘J’ - just because I’m creative like that). This invitation went down like this:

1. I replied to an e-mail Jason had sent with a “if you want, drop by Friday night we’ll have some beer and shoot pool.”

2. Jason replied, “Sounds good. Let me check with Susan to make sure we are not doing anything.”

Okay, allow me interject here. This is not what this post it about, and it really has nothing to do with anything, but let me offer some advice to others out there. When you tell a friend that you have to check with your wife or girlfriend before you do something it makes you look like a pussy. That’s just the truth. I understand completely that you have to check. Everyone in the known western world has to check with their significant other before making plans on a Friday night. But for God’s sake just lie about it. Say anything but that. If he had told me he has to cancel his scrotum wax I would have had more respect for him. He could have said he needed to move his pedicure appointment and he would have looked less pussyish. Just some friendly advice on how to not look like a completely whipped slave to the vagina - from your neighborhood blogger.

Back to the invitation:

3. Jason replies two days later with, “Is it cool with you if Susan comes?” Whatever. There is nothing more I can add to the point of how sad he is. I’m fine with it. Bring as many people as you want, I don’t care. I reply, “sure.”

4. Jason replies three hours later with, “Susan wants to know if her best friend, Jamie, can come with us.”

5. What the fuck? I thought this was two guys getting together and drinking, watching some football, and shooting some pool. However, I am a smart MF, and I know that I cannot say, “dude, I thought it was going to just be the two of us. Now I am hurt and confused by your lack of consideration.” So instead I say, “Great, sounds good.”

Now, here is where things get weird. Friday afternoon Jason comes to my desk and says, sort of sheepishly, “Susan wanted me to tell you to make sure you have trash bags in your bathroom trash cans.”

I stare at him blankly for several seconds, and he begins to explain. He tells me that he didn’t want to bring it up, but Susan told him he had to tell me. He tells me that it is not Susan or he that wants the trash bags, but he is concerned about Jamie. I say, “Jamie wants trash bags?” He then tells me that Susan does this every time Jamie comes over because - and here it is - she doesn’t flush toilet paper.

I lean back in my chair.

I put my hands behind my head.

We stare at each other for seconds.

“What do you mean,” I ask. “What does she do with it?”

“She puts it in the trash can.”

“She puts it in the trash can?”

“She puts it in the trash can.”

He tells me that Jamie has done this since Susan has known her, and that Jaime never flushes. She just wads her toilet paper and places it in the trash can.

I ask, “Wait, are you telling me that she does this when she takes a shit?”

“Yes.”

I am disgusted. Taken aback. Shocked. Who does this? How can this be?

As soon as I got home I went into the bathroom and put a trash bag in the trash can. So Friday night comes, and Jamie, Susan and Jason come over. We drink until all hours of the night. We have a great time. We shoot pool. We do some X and have an orgy. (Well not that last part). I have forgotten about the weird toilet paper thing. Jamie, Susan and Jason leave. The next morning, horror ensues.

I went to the guest bathroom. There, sitting on top of the lined trash can was a piece of wadded toilet paper with some shit, wiped directly from Jamie’s ass, peaking from the inside of the wad. Of course, I disposed of this while wearing rubber gloves.

I need your help with this one. What should I make of this? Is this normal behavior? Do other people do this? Have you ever met anyone else that does this? Have you ever heard a similar story? What the fuck?

As a side note - does a normal person go to another’s house for the evening and take a shit? I know women are all weird and different, but do you take shits wherever you go? Just because you are sitting down doesn’t mean you have to drop some kids off at the pool does it? Do you just sit down and think, “oopsy, I have a little poo, better get that out of there.” Because, let me tell you, I don’t shit anywhere but home and my favorite stall at work. There are some exceptions of course, but drinking at a friend’s house is not one of them.

The bad part is, they said they wanted to do this again soon. Do I say something? I don’t want to dispose of shitty toilet paper again. I am in fear.

Things you may want to know to answer these questions: 1) Jamie is a country girl, but moved to New York City at 19 and lived there for 6 years. 2) Jamie appears normal in every respect. 3) Jason tells me that she does this even when there is not a trash bag. 4) I asked around at work, and no one has heard of such a thing. But, then again, I only asked two guys and both wanted to know if she was hot and single, and why I didn’t “hit that.”

So there you have it. Comment please.