At the office today, this sign was taped to the mirror of the men’s restroom on our floor.
I was pretty sure that the cleaning lady did not post this message for us guys. Upon returning to my desk, I immediately sent an e-mail to one of my co-workers:
Thanks. Blunt, but effective.
The reply:
How’d you know it was me?
My explanation:
Well, if anyone knows truck stop bathrooms…
His comeback:
That’s offensive. You know I prefer roadside parks.
You have to appreciate this kind of camaraderie. My friend posts on my “regular” Facebook page occasionally. At the end of his comments, he’ll call me “bitch” and “faggot,” (yes, he’s gay himself). I wince with the knowledge that my family and hometown friends might see the crude comments. But I never squelch him. He has to be himself, and I respect that.
It’s not that I don’t provoke him. Almost every morning, I sneak up behind him and slide my middle finger in front of his face. Juvenile. Well, of course. Maybe we are trying to get over the gruesome fact that we are both in our forties. Maybe we never grew up and are Peter Pans navigating the corporate world. Either way, our antics make the workday go faster.
Furthermore, neither of us is leaving hemorrhoid pad packages in the restroom.
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