2004-06-02 - 10:20 a.m.
Dear Pencopal,
Yo. How's it going today? Got anything funny to tell me? I need some comic relief right now. Thanks. ;) hee hee.
--L Boogie
Dear L Boogie,
What am I, here to amuse you? Who am I, your personal joke of the day???? If I had a pen I�d stab you like Joe Pesci stabbed that guy in Goodfellas.
--Pencopal
GOODBYE BATTY BUSH
My former nemesis, Batty Bush, is no more. Gone are her errant short hairs, scattered lovingly across white porcelain. Either she has learned ladies� etiquette and brushes off those curly cues before she exits the stall, or someone has used a pair of oversized shears to prune that bush. Either way, our battle for control of stall 2 is over. Did you ever doubt me? Pencopal remains the winner. Punks jump up to get beat down.
Don�t believe for a second though, that the bathroom brawl is over. A new contender has emerged: I shall call her Ishmael. Strike that: I shall call her Powerful Pooper.
She is a high level editor whose power has been usurped by underlings, so she spends all her time worrying about her magazine�s Web site, though there are 15 tech people assigned to that job. The Powerful Pooper knows nothing of excretory etiquette. When I first heard of her, the story had the tone of a suburban legend. Apparently, she likes company when she shits.
She lays in wait for someone to walk into the bathroom, and then she follows that person, striking up a conversation. As she talks to you, you hear the theme from Jaws somewhere in your midst, as your subconscious warns you something nasty and awful is about to happen. The Powerful Pooper enters the handicapped stall, because she needs room to get the job done. Let�s say you enter stall 2. She keeps talking, and you�re wondering why, because once the stall door is closed, all talking is prohibited unless she�s your friend or you two happen to be washing your hands simultaneously. While she talks, you can�t pee, because it�s just weird. But Powerful Pooper has no qualms about doing what she came to do, and she unleashes a fart the likes of which you�ve never heard. You didn�t know a woman�s body could make that kind of sound. Your head snaps to the right as you look at the wall between you, wondering, �Who does that?� Powerful Pooper, that�s who, biatch. Finally your urine comes out, and you try to finish fast because you have the sinking feeling it�s only going to get worse from here. And you�re right. More baritone farts escape from the handicapped stall, and their tone is increasingly wet. It�s all you can do not to scream as you finish up. You quickly wash your hands and the Powerful Pooper tries to talk, but her voice is drowned out by the sounds of her own excrement. It�s a juicy shit, you can hear it, and your eyes water from the smell. She�s determined that you�ll help her see it through, so she�s asking you questions to keep you engaged. Any manners you have leave your soul as gently as your breath, and you run from the bathroom, eager to take in some fresh air and leave the Powerful Pooper to her own devices.
You run back to your cube, and you�re safe. After you rock in the fetal position for a while, moaning, �take me to happy place, take me to happy place,� you begin to feel safe again and you can continue working. You see her in the hallways, and she�s a little short with you. How funny that she has the gall to be angry that you left while she was still talking, when she shit her brains out, Chappelle�s show style, two feet from your face.
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