I am back in the corporate world, away from the comforts of my adorable little theatre, away from the comforts of my t-shirt and jeans rock explosion and my enormous bear and putting on the stupidest song I can think of and turning it all the way up because, fuck, who cares? Goodbye boodgye my shirt is tucked in and my beard is trimmed. Tra la la tra la lee I sit in an empty cubicle with no phone and a tiny loaner laptop and no office supplies because life is meaningless tra la lee kaloo kalay.
But it brings up an important point, and that important point is about the guy who I just heard talking on his cell phone while he was taking a dump.
See, for all I know, everybody at the children's theatre was on the phone while they were taking a dump all the time. Like, the instant the belt came unbuckled they were just networking and planning and gossiping and grunt splash OK, I'll talk to you later, bro. But if that was going down I was unaware. Now there is a shared washroom, so I'm standing there taking a leak and I hear a disembodied voice announcing, casual as anything, "Oh, totally. Well, we'll just meet you guys there and play it by ear, brah." And so on.
Dude Who Talks To His Friends While He Shits, I have many questions for you.
Actually, DWTTHFWHS, I before I get to you I have to make as clear as I can to everybody I know or will ever know or may stand near or buy something from: NEVER TALK TO ME WHILE YOU ARE TAKING A DUMP. ESPECIALLY if the dump is a secret. I guess it's better if you go ahead and tell me what's what, but I'll probably just hang up on you and scream and scream. I want to pretend you are somewhere nice, a captain of industry. Perhaps you feet perched on your desk. Maybe window shopping on Madison Avenue on a quiet Sunday. Please do not make me think that you are wonderful and then the director does a split screen and you're sitting there with your pants around your ankles and you are played by Luke Wilson.
Anyhoo, DWTTHFWHS, I want to know everything about you. Naturally, I had to try to figure out everything I could from your shoes and your pants, but they told me nothing. I suppose I could have waited outside of the bathroom and followed you to wherever it is you're going; ths incredible special place, these plans you had to discuss right this very GRUNT SPLASH. In my heart I hope it's a magical netherworld, but I know it's just some shitty fake Irish bar with one Scottish bartender and close enough, eh?
I want to know what your parents think, or if they're even human. Perhaps you were raised by barnyard animals. Perhaps some sort of hybrid. I have to confess, DWTTHFWHS, I was lost in thought debating whether, if your parents are animal hybrids, they wore pants on all fours or stood upright with no pants. Or, I guess, other possible combinations, other evolutionary steps. That moment when your father, the Man-goat, first stood on two legs and everyone was so happy except for you and you were all 'Aw, Dad, I can see your nards!'
DWTTHFWHS, you are like George Washington crossing the Delaware and then he's like "Pull over, I gotta squirt."
Look, I don't mean to be all judgy, DWTTHFWHS. I get it, I've been there. I've been "Riding the Cyclone" and then my phone goes off and it's my wife and I'm like, "Would she want me to take this?" And then I remember that my wife reads books and speaks with words, and I decide to wait a few minutes to call her back because WHY WHY WHY WHY.
Texting on the can, sure. Whatever.
I guess, DWTTHFWHS, maybe I missed out on something in the high school/college experience. Maybe it's my fault, not yours. I just was never that casual with anybody. I never played sports beyond a certain age or served in the military or any of those other things where the movies tell me you crap with no stalls and shower together or whatever. Which is not to say that I haven't showered with other dudes, but there were usually a bunch more girls in the shower too. Like at Spring's birthday party that one year we covered a room at the Chelsea Hotel with glitter.
(Open aside to my child: Your parents are hedonistic freaks, Gonzo. It's pretty hilarious.)
Oh man, so much glitter and drugs.
Hang on a second, DWTTHFWHS, I've got to soak on this memory for a second. Gonzo, I don't mind telling you that your mom looked totally delicious that night. I know I know, so gross! So embarrassing. Get used to it.
Crap. What was I saying to -- oh right! What the hell is wrong with you talking to your friends on the toilet??
I make this solemn oath to you, one and all: Yes, I may be an idiot, and a drunk, and I may have a life history of bad behavior and breaking things I shouldn't and philandering and bad influencing and general low-level mayhem, and I may have done you wrong in a million different ways, but God as my witness I will never talk on the phone with you while I am taking a dump. I will throw a beer bottle through your window, but if you confront me about it while I'm on the can I will politely call out, "Just a minute!"
Do you know, DWTTHFWHS, the level of self-control it took to keep from yelling "HE'S TALKING TO YOU WHILE HE TAKES A SHIT" over and over again so your friends could hear? It was unbearable.
Anyway, I'm sure your friends don't care, and I know you don't, and we have to share this world and that's just how it goes. You will do your thing and I will do mine. Maybe my thing disgusts you, which is entirely plausible. But really, my thing is more irritating than anything else. Your thing is gross, DWTTHFWHS. A pox on your soul. May your beer be flat and your cheese fries congealed. Ooooh, cheese fries.