I hope this is my last STD news until the warts show up. Negative for gonorrhea and chlamydia.
Ooh— you little motherfucker. New job, new bathroom, new stage fright story. This disease makes me piss every fifteen minutes. My prostate is inflamed and it gets all swollen with urgency at these times. And so I go in there to take my piss and there’s a guy— nerdy, nebbishy looking guy, obviously a screenwriter, and again, I go in, give him a cursory head-nod, and he gives a subdued “hi.” Nothing wrong yet. Except now I’m about to piss and he starts going to town over at the sink, riding the fucking soap pump like it was a slot machine and activating— they have those stupid laser-activated sinks, and they give no hot water, and only this stingy one-second burst— and he’s waving his hands in front of it again and again. And then he grabs about fifteen c-fold paper-towels out of the dispenser and rubs them over every hand surface with great vigor, and then REPEATS the process— so at this point it’s clear that he’s an obsessive-compulsive.
And not a cool off-beat obsessive-compulsive like me with colorful, interesting fears and rituals. Rather a fucking lame hand-washing one- how fucking generic can you be? But I’m standing there and I can’t piss because of some pathos I feel at this poor fucker having to go through his sad nutty ritual in front of me, and I’m squeezing so hard that I let out a wet-sounding fart, and it’s clear that *he’s* not going to leave before *me.* But he knows I haven’t pissed, and he must know, that little fuckstick, that I can’t piss because he’s there.
I blinked. I packed my dick back up and slunk back to my office. now I’m sitting on flames. a porcupine is club-grinding on my taint. And if I go back too soon my boss will know that something’s weird.