Well ages ago I posted about The Poo Heckler and it made me laugh. That guy was a freak. I must be in the wrong area or something because today I was peeing in the bathroom of the business area shopping mall and there is some guy mixed in between whistling and singing. The man next to me, who looks like he is cruising but that is beside the point, starts laughing to himself.
Poo Swami is belting out a loud R&B type of tune while sitting on the can producing loud farting and plopping sounds the whole time. I lean over to the supposedly cruising man before I finish pissing and say, “He is a Poo Swami,” and then laugh to myself.
The man inquires, “What is that?”
“It is like a regular snake charmer but his medium is poo rather than snakes.” I respond.
We both crack up and I leave the restroom to get my lunch. Some people are just weird.
I went for a pee pee during the 7th inning stretch, and the guy at the urinal next to me leans way over, gets a good look at my plumbing, and exclaims “Well! I guess the Green Monster is alive and well at Fenway!”
Huh? My thing ain’t green! WTF?!? It was really bizarre.
I was at a certain Polish restaurant in Chicago and I had to use the W/C. I’m at the urinal doing my business, when a guy sidles up the next urinal, and after a few seconds, says something incoherent to my ears. I say, “What’s that?” to which he says, “Eatin’ bread and peein’ at th’ same time.” I then observed he indeed had a mouthful of food while “peeing”. I looked at him funny, as I was taken aback. He then asked, “Are you okay?”
He then finished up, washed, and left me to ponder this weird situation. BTW, great food there. This guy was certainly not representative of the food or staff.
When the Fleet Center opened in Boston, the Local Scandal Sheet, The Boston Herald, solicited readers to share their “Boston Garden, We’ll Miss You” stories. Here’s mine…
The Bruins were playing the Hartford Whalers, the last time they’d meet at the soon-to-be-closed Boston Garden. It was late in the season, and these usually competitive teams were really playing their asses off. It was a great game - high-scoring, hard-hitting, lots of fights - everyone was on the edge of their seats by second intermission. I didn’t want to miss any action, so even though I was drinking a lot of beers, and I really had to pee, I waited. Apparently everyone else did, too. The whistle blew, and I was off like a shot to the bathroom. I’ve said this before, but there’s only two kind of people - the Quick and the Dead. And I wasn’t quick enough. At least 50 people managed to get in line before me. I waited. And Waited. And then I decided to try the next bathroom. The line was just as bad. Worse, even. On to the next, and so on. By this time, I was ready to burst, holding myself to keep the inevitable flood from breaking the gates. Desperation Time. I abandoned my search for a bathroom in favor of any open door, and I found one! Oh, Sweet Maintenance Closet! Praise be to the Custodians! I quickly took a gander left, right, then left again to make sure the coast was clear, then slipped inside.
I peed in the Big Plastic Slop Sink. Heaven! Relief! Ecstasy!
As I prepared to make my escape, I ran some hot water into the sink (just because I was desperate doesn’t mean I became an animal!), and slowly opened the door.
I peeked out.
There they were…
At least 10 guys, waiting in line at the door.
:eek:
That’s the story I submitted to the Herald. They didn’t print it. Go figure.
They are imitation Italian. I picked them up as cousins off the street from some Asian counterfitter in NYC. Though they are just as nice as my Ronex watch and Goocci wallet.
I once encountered a Poo Coach, I think it was at Dallas Airport so it might have been Barry Switzer or Jimmy Johnson, everyone knows that Tom Landry never took a dump. Anyway, this guy kept chanting in the stall:
“Come on, come on, it’s almost there…”, plop.
“Good one, good one. You’ve got more, <<strain>>…”, plop.
And so on. He wasn’t belting it out or anything, more of a loud whisper, but hey it was a bathroom, sound carries.