Showing posts with label elisha cuthbert. Show all posts
Showing posts with label elisha cuthbert. Show all posts

1.13.2007

A Day in the Life
Since nobody shared their deserted island movies with me, I have no choice but to write about my poops.

Now that I have a job, my poops are no longer my own. I must dole them out carefully when I’m not helping customers or daydreaming about Elisha Cuthbert and tartar sauce.

Mmmmm... Tartar sauce....

I’ve realized that poops can be a highly valued commodity in the workforce; they’re kind of like brown, stinky tokens that can be exchanged for a free break. I mean, given a choice, every boss in the world will want you to take a dump in a toilet instead of on a customer’s chest. That’s just good service. And by carefully timing your bowel movements, you can effectively double your break time. Granted, you’ll be spending that time perched on a toilet straining your little heart out, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The unspoken rule of customer service

My personal bowel movements are pretty regular. Meaning they regularly come when I’m helping three different customers at the same time and there’s nobody around to help me. My poops are particularly attracted to stress, I think, and arrive as soon as I feel pressured. Maybe it’s nature’s way of telling me to “hurry up” and get rid of these other people so I can take care of my own “business.”

I work with a lot of women so I’m particularly careful of leaving incriminating poop stains on the toilet seat. I figure that I will be the prime suspect in any bowel chicanery since men naturally have the dirtiest butts. To avoid unsightly smears I always create a makeshift seat cover using spit and toilet paper. The single bathroom stall is so small that it’s impossible to sit straight down and instead I have to move down at a left to right angle. But if I move too quickly then the resulting air-flow knocks over my MacGuyvered seat cover and then the risk of smear stains rises exponentially. To combat this I have to hover my butt mere inches from the seat at a roughly 45-degree angle. That’s when I snap my butt down with the speed of an attacking cobra snake.

I'm so fast, I just pooped right now while you were reading this

I’d tell you about the rest of my day, but it’s pretty inconsequential compared to this.