I had been nestled in stall #1 when I noticed my legs were falling asleep. I knew I had to go before my legs completely feel asleep. Since I was sitting, I reached for a square. Normally, reaching for a square isn’t very hard but today getting a square proved to very difficult. Apparently, the janitorial engineer decided that my team used too much paper during the day because he or she had jammed the paper holder full! I went to spin the roll and it wouldn’t move. Not even an inch.
I proceeded to do what every real man would do in this situation. I decided to use brute force. I pinched a corner of the roll between my thumb and index finger and flexing all the muscles available to me in my fingers, in one quick motion I… PULLED.
And I got… …a piece of paper the size of a penny.
A square the size of a penny wasn’t nearly enough to clean my situation up. Not easily defeated, I realized I just needed more force. So I extended the thumb and forefinger again and squeezed so hard my fingers turned white and PULLED.
And I got… …a piece of paper the size of a dime.
The good news was that I now had two pieces of paper to work with. The bad news was the pieces were getting smaller. I decided that brute force wasn’t working so I went with repetitive motion. I started digging at the roll of paper like a dog digging in a flowerbed. DIG DIG DIG. I was starting to panic because I was worried that I might not get a square. Our female readers might not realize but this is quite the predicament for a man.
Let me digress for a moment to explain men’s room etiquette. The men’s room isn’t like the ladies room where everyone chit chats about their day and everything else. There is no looking, talking, conversing, or other social gestures. The one exception is the sink. You can talk to anyone at the sink. But, all conversation is limited to the three W’s: work, weather, and/or working out.
So, as you can see, I am trapped in Stall #1 with no paper. I certainly can’t ask for a square. The cardinal rule of every mens room in every country in the world (even in prison), there is no stall talk. There will be no discussion between stalls. I don’t care if your arm falls off and blood is gushing out of your shoulder. If you can’t make it to the sink to say “I’m think I cut myself” then no one will acknowledge your existence.
So, there I was in stall #1 with paper, paper everywhere but not a square to use. For all my efforts, all I had succeeded in doing was digging a trench in the roll. There were so many scraps of paper on the floor, my shoe laces peeked out of the mound of white that covered my shoes. Honestly, it looked like it had snowed in stall #1.
Finally, I paused, listened intently to the silence in the bathroom, pulled my underwear and pants to three-quarters mast… and ran to stall #2. And life was good.