LXVI. Are you getting a fair shake?
Look at your hands right now. Did you wash them after the last time you did your evil in the restroom? Be honest. Santa-Jesus is listening, and giggling.
A new study was released this week that shows a third of men do not wash their hands after using a public restroom. Twelve percent of women are swine too. Sickening. I am disgusted and aroused.
Could this be true? Haven't I routinely witnessed co-workers intent on spreading their crotch patina to the rest of mankind, masked as greetings and well-wishes?
"How are you Clubber? Still having legal trouble?" a co-worker asks while doing the middle-finger palm tickle during our handshake.
"Oh, just a little," I say, remembering 15 minutes before when I watched him sprint out of the restroom, giving the sink a wide berth. Then I stick my fingers in my mouth hoping he has the plague. I am weird like that.
Because I am a Blogger (Latin for "More Important"), I decided to do my own research.
Yesterday, I bought a clipboard and fashioned a crude police badge from some old box tops and stationed myself inside our office restroom. Not more than five minutes into my experiment, a woman slapped me for peeking under her stall, clearly not respecting my lab coat.
I had a hunch I'd have better luck in the men's room, so I packed up my digital camera and adult magazines, put on a new disguise, and went next door. The first of my male co-workers came in. "Hey Clubber, why are you dressed like the Easter Bunny in a lab coat?"
His candor caught me so off-guard that my Australian accent failed me.
"Bonjour!" I said so loudly it startled me.
He walked into the stall and I saw his pants hit the floor. As he took up his residency, another guy came in, my boss Fielding Troutman. But for the sake of anonymity, I will call him "Mr. My Crotch is Your Crotch." He stood in front of the urinal.
"So why the bunny suit, Clubber? You doing kids' parties again?"
I meowed to throw him off.
After he was finished, he karate kicked the urinal handle and walked right out the door, smiling at me. Disgusting. "Stall Man" then flushed and came out.
"So long, lil' bunny Clubber!" he said, and went out without a drop of water on his hands.
It's official – 100 percent of the men in my office do not wash their hands after unleashing, and 100 percent of the women hate scientists.
The next time a co-worker sticks out a hand that looks like he just plowed through a bucket of fried chicken in the bathroom, I will cough into my own fist and say, "Oh sorry, you probably don't want to shake right now, I might have the plague."
A new study was released this week that shows a third of men do not wash their hands after using a public restroom. Twelve percent of women are swine too. Sickening. I am disgusted and aroused.
Could this be true? Haven't I routinely witnessed co-workers intent on spreading their crotch patina to the rest of mankind, masked as greetings and well-wishes?
"How are you Clubber? Still having legal trouble?" a co-worker asks while doing the middle-finger palm tickle during our handshake.
"Oh, just a little," I say, remembering 15 minutes before when I watched him sprint out of the restroom, giving the sink a wide berth. Then I stick my fingers in my mouth hoping he has the plague. I am weird like that.
Because I am a Blogger (Latin for "More Important"), I decided to do my own research.
Yesterday, I bought a clipboard and fashioned a crude police badge from some old box tops and stationed myself inside our office restroom. Not more than five minutes into my experiment, a woman slapped me for peeking under her stall, clearly not respecting my lab coat.
I had a hunch I'd have better luck in the men's room, so I packed up my digital camera and adult magazines, put on a new disguise, and went next door. The first of my male co-workers came in. "Hey Clubber, why are you dressed like the Easter Bunny in a lab coat?"
His candor caught me so off-guard that my Australian accent failed me.
"Bonjour!" I said so loudly it startled me.
He walked into the stall and I saw his pants hit the floor. As he took up his residency, another guy came in, my boss Fielding Troutman. But for the sake of anonymity, I will call him "Mr. My Crotch is Your Crotch." He stood in front of the urinal.
"So why the bunny suit, Clubber? You doing kids' parties again?"
I meowed to throw him off.
After he was finished, he karate kicked the urinal handle and walked right out the door, smiling at me. Disgusting. "Stall Man" then flushed and came out.
"So long, lil' bunny Clubber!" he said, and went out without a drop of water on his hands.
It's official – 100 percent of the men in my office do not wash their hands after unleashing, and 100 percent of the women hate scientists.
The next time a co-worker sticks out a hand that looks like he just plowed through a bucket of fried chicken in the bathroom, I will cough into my own fist and say, "Oh sorry, you probably don't want to shake right now, I might have the plague."
posted by Clubber Lang at 2:43 PM
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