Yesterday morning after a joville celebration acknowledging the fact that I slept in later than 7:30am, I proceeded to use the hallway water closet in hopes of preforming my morning constitutional when I stumbled upon the unthinkable: A disaster so devious throughout history it has been the very act responsible for bringing kings to their knees, religious leaders to uncontrolable rage, nations to cival war...Yes, I peered into the hallway water closet only to discover that we were out of toliet paper.
Even at this moment I shutter at this thought of the unthinkable, and even you reading these lines are failing to see the merit in my words. This situation wasn't like seeing Bigfoot walking across a clearing, or a blurry photo of the Loch Ness, this was a true account of what some have already dubbed a brush with fate or a meeting with destiny.
As I saw the vacant toliet paper dispenser staring at me blankly like the view inside an ancient tomb, denile began to fill judgment: "there is more under the sink, we must keep more of it in the hall closet, maybe someone used it as a napkin and the remanding role is sitting on the table." Like trying to find Kennedy's killer, all options proved useless. Suddenly like a lightning bolt cascading through my brain, and idea struck; check Jeff's bathroom. As if I was the star quarterback entering the field before the homecoming game, I poured into Jeff's bathroom. Aside from a high-school era photo of Jeff's family, the bathroom contained nothing but Jeff's parents peering eyes.
If you're famililar with this next sensation, you're not alone, panic can strike at anytime. We call it 'loosing it' the French call it "le panic", but it isn't normal fear like, "Oh man, the Germans rolled over us again I really hope the US can bail us out." It is terror. As I rifled through my belongings hoping to find a blade capable of ending this nightmare I stumbled upon my 24hour Fitness ID. At first I failed to realize how staring at beautiful women while they worked out would help my current predicament, but then it struck me: 24hour has restrooms. My ID, my saving grace, was held close to my heart like a wayward kitten who had thought it through.
Within seconds of my epiphany my sneakers were on and I reached my hand toward the door only to be plagued with yet another fork in the road; run or walk? 24hour Fitness is literally 3/4 or a mile down the street on which I live. I can jog there in less than 6 minutes, but would the jarring up and down of my body force some 'unnatural' results, or do I risk a long walk where, like a pregnant woman, I was do at anytime? As my lower midsection burned with the pains of nature, I was running down the street before I knew what was happening. As an old runner, there are a few tricks to 'keeping your cool' while you're running, but this scenario was perhaps the toughest situation I'd ever settled into. Thankfully, I walked through 24hr's doors with my undershorts still shy of a nuclear rating, scanned my card, stood around for awhile so it didn't look like I had just ran a mile to use the bathroom, and carefully moved toward the restroom.
The last stint of terror occured in the bathroom stall itself, as I reached for a paper seat cover only to read the capation blazen above the paper. "Supplied by the management, for your Protection." I'm sorry, but the last thing I want to have to think about while I'm unleashing a duce, is the fact that I also have to be Protecting myself from only the Lord knows what. Needless to say, I hovered.
Shortly after the smoke cleared in the men's room, I emerged victorious. The problem no became that I couldn't just leave the gym after what I had done because the beautiful women who work the front desk would certainly believe, "Hey, that guy just came in here to drop a duce...what a sick-ie." So I proceeded to ride an exercise bike for 20 minutes to make it look like I was an athlete. Only the mighty. Only.
No comments:
Post a Comment