A Return to Boggy Creek

I just walked into the men’s room and found myself smack in the middle of Boggy Creek. It was like Bayou Weekend all over again. Water everywhere, everywhere. The urinal is this big porcelain scoop in the wall, going from chest height to the very level of the floor, and it was rushing and spilling water all over the place.

This happened once before and I was able to repair things with some handle jiggling. But today there was about 2 feet of space, a little dry crescent moon, and I just got the fuck out of there. Ran into my boss on the way and discovered the difficulty of asking for the janitor’s number while not making it sound as if I took destroyed a toilet with a phenomonel movement of bowels.

“Hi, Tim.”

“Uh . . . hey. Do you know the janitor manager’s number? The bathroom . . . I just walked in and there’s water everywhere, it’s still flooding—“

“Oh my god.”

And then I called the janitor manager, who is this old fat woman with a cane who looks and acts like she’s running a plantation. She lazily asked what buildling I was in—and she only manages one damn building, that I know of. The IVRS building, I said. Downstairs, with the cubicles. All the cubicles. She sent someone to check it out.

And then, afterward now, people have been looking at me like they want to crack up.

“What did you do?” someone asked. “What did you do to the toilet?”

“Nothing. I didn’t even use it.”

“Oh, right. It’s like when someone passes gas: it always gets blamed on someone else.”

“I was only in there for five seconds!”

“Uh huh.”