Tuesday, December 21, 2004

The Great Escape

ok. it is not easy when you try to look both glamorous and sexy while having an excruciating stomachache and a case of the ever-growing supply of methane threatening to escape. you hope against all odds that your fart is not sulphurous. or at least you hope that when it escapes, you are able to act both oblivious enough to escape being the main suspect and at the same time, acknowledge it enough to be recognised as a fellow victim of public gas.

nevermind that.

i make it - without gassing the masses to death.

i get to the toilet and there are those two annoying women from accounts. one who walks slower than her grandmother, stares at the mirror the whole day without actually gaining any positive effect on her own beauty, has pictures of herself (herself, for god's sake) all over her table and combs through her hair with her skinny fingers after exiting the toilet cubicle without first washing her hands. and the other looks like a human version of kerokerokeroppi the freakin toad, with eyes so far apart from each other she looks like a bluddy catfish, never washes her hands after using the toilet, walks with her stomach (not feet) out first, and makes this funny gurgling/choking/snorting noise in her throat before spitting into the toiletbowl hence allowing stray phlegm bombs to land on seat.

doesnt matter since my friend, junli, can testify that she's seen me pee and i never seat on the toiletseat without working my thighs or half a truckload of toiletpaper. unless i'm so dead drunk.

enter my favourite cubicle, (favourite cos the floor is dry, doesnt flush eagerly every 30 seconds and certainly doesnt lick my pussy when it flushes) and discover in the toiletroll holder, there's only a roll, no paper. fantastic. enter # 02. #02 is wet all the time, flushes every time my hair moves 5mm and certainly licks my pussy when it flushes EUGH). #03's door is shut, but i wouldnt enter it anyway as it is a squat toilet and my quads/hams/tri-spams arent that excellent. and vainpot and kerokerokeroppi keep talking and talking at the sink.

hello?

privacy please?

take your business somewhere else?

but no.
now my hidden talent kicks in. i have to detonate in silence. of course the comfort factor is close to nil and my urge to scream, "Get out!" is high. nevermind that. eventually, they leave. i get my 2 minute repose. and then i hear the shuffling of feet outside the door to the ladies.

it has to be rahman, our bangladeshi janitor who has a knack of vacuuming our carpeted floor at exactly 1755 when we're all bluddy rushing to finish our work and leave by 1800 to catch the bluddy bus out of this ulu/out-of-the-way logistics park, leaves Jif cream marks all over our workstations making them dirtier than they previously were since he does not change the water in the bucket hence giving a whole new meaning to communal workstation-bacteria-sharing and has a bad sense of timing when it comes to changing toiletrolls.

i miss hassan, our ex janitor who vacuums after everyone leaves, cleans our tables beautifully and never leaves our toiletroll holders empty.

but anyway, my short-lived meditation ends. am very disturbed by man standing outside door waiting for only toilet patron to come out. i know i wont come out for another ten minutes. why cant he go away and come back later? no. our never-say-die janitor perseveres and makes OBVIOUS sounds that he is there. like, "please get out cos i wanna go in" sounds. he shuffles feet some more, raps his hands against the wall, sighs (a lot), paces to and fro. hello mister, if you're going to stress my shy anus more, i'm going to have to take a bluddy longer time to shit cos i just cant perform.

anal anxiety.

it's a problem.

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