Hey you. Yeah, you, sitting on the stool next to the sink in the bathroom of this overpriced nightclub.
Fuck you.
Can I not even step up to the sink after taking a piss and wash my own hands like a big boy? I promise I know how. Not only did my mommy teach me how to wash up when I was three, I got a great refresher course on the finer points of hand washing when I got my food handler’s permit to work at the Arby’s in tenth grade. I know the routine, I promise: hot water, lots of soap, 30 seconds of vigorous scrubbing, then dry with a clean paper towel. I don’t need you to squirt the soap into my hand, and I definitely don’t need you to hand me paper towels - with your own filthy hands - out of the dispenser that is easily within my reach, but which I would have to reach across you to get at.
No, I don’t want any Polo. No, I don’t want any Drakkar. No, I don’t want any Calvin Klein. Ditto the Christian Dior, the Cool Water, the Hugo Boss, the…you know what, just stop. Stop gesturing at the collection of cologne bottles on the washroom counter like some brain-damaged mime. My personal smell is a consciously-constructed amalgam of products chosen by me in advance of coming here tonight: my soap, my shampoo, my laundry detergent and fabric softener, my deodorant, and (if I so choose) my cologne. Why would I want to overwhelm that with a couple liberal squirts of…is that Brut 33? Eww. Fuck you.
And now you glance, subtly yet plaintively, at that basket of damp, crumpled one dollar bills on the counter. EAT SHIT. Is it not enough that I paid $12 to get in here (for a friend’s going away party), and am sipping $8 martinis (because there’s no way I’m paying $4 for a bottle of goddamn Coors Light), but this stupid club figured the best way to squeeze a few more dollars out of me would be to throw a hobo into a tux, park him in the john and have him stand guard over the soap and paper towels, doling them out only for ransom?
There’s actually one thing you could be doing that I’d gladly pay you a buck for, each and every time: opening this door for me so that I don’t have to touch it after all the filthy bastards who walked out without washing their hands because they didn’t want to pay you for soap. But no, it’s more profitable, and easier, to treat the sink as your own private toll booth.
sigh
Here’s a buck. :mad: