The company for which I work has installed in the men’s room a device that automatically sprays a mist of scented air freshener at timed intervals of about two minutes. My narcissistic belief that the odors emanating from my bum have in some way created the need for this machine have my emotions alternating between self-disgust and self-pride. I am in no way prepared to take full credit for the foul men’s room stench, but I am aware that my semi-regular trips to Starbucks and McDonald’s sometimes result in the spawning of some rather malodorous buttfish. As they say, “Garbage in, garbage out.” (Except now my “garbage out” will smell like a spring meadow.)

The company has recently enacted drastic budget cuts, and yet it still found enough spare nickels to justify the expense for an automatic air freshener squirter --- as opposed to, say, sticking a can of Lysol in the crapper. Rest assured, though: if I don’t get a bonus this year because the company spent my money on the Destinkifyer 2000 (or whatever it’s called), there will be a rebellion. I’ll go to the all-you-can-eat Indian food buffet down the street, load up on curries and asparagus and stinky cauliflower dishes, then I’ll lay the mother of all cable in that bathroom, disconnect the automatic squirter and run like a motherfucker, screaming “Eat it, bastards! Taste the pain!” all the way home.

I presume the installation of this device is partially the result of an ultimatum by Julio, the building maintenance man assigned to our floor. I can’t count how many times I have emerged from a stall to find Julio changing the paper towels or restocking the ass gaskets in an adjoining stall. We look at each other. He knows I am the reason he is having to breathe through his mouth. And then what do you say? How do you apologize to someone whose job requires him to smell your shits?

“Hey, Julio,” I say.

“Hey, Mr. Danny,” he says. “Another Filet O’Fish for lunch today?”

“Wow. You can tell that just by smelling my poo? That’s awesome.”

“Awesome for you maybe. Very, very bad for me.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad.”

“Si, in the janitor’s lounge you are the man we call ‘Señor Crap.’ Only reason I work on this floor is because I drew the shortest straw.”

“You guys call me ‘Señor Crap?’ Seriously?”

“Seriously. Your shit smells like rotten tamales. You need to eat more fruits and vegetables.”

“Fuck you, Julio. What are you, my mother?”

“No, I’m the guy who has to smell your shits everyday. And fuck you, too, Señor Crap.”

Comments

That's awesome dialog. I approve.