My day job is your standard 8 hours a day, paid every two weeks, paying more each year for less insurance coverage kind of job. So and average American kind of job, I guess. The kind you commonly hear about, and that has been known to raise a fair amount of grumbling from the main stream working class. Yes, we are grateful for the job, but we’re still going to complain about it. Hey, it’s our right to do so and more importantly we are not getting paid enough to not complain.
Bitching about work is one of those unifying past times. Much like smoking is the universal make a friend anywhere in world… for other smokers I mean. It’s also the device responsible for the universal “you dirty bastard stop trying to kill me with your cigarette smoke” look that all non smokers seem so proficient at giving to all the smokers. Still, if a smoker from Germany finds himself, or herself, in Canada waiting at the bus stop and someone walks up next to them and lights a smoke, and then the German lights a smoke… next thing you know the two smokers are chatting and making plans to hang out… or at the very least they exchange addresses so they can become pen pals. The only other thing I can really think of that brings people together like that is babies or little kids. I mean people with kids making friends with other people with kids… not smokers and people with babies making friends. You really don’t ever see that happening.
Complaining about work seems to be that same kind of thing. It’s a universal that I believe most people have done at some point, and some continue to do on a daily basis. It’s so traditional it’s even become a Hollywood cliché. Hey if there is one thing Hollywood does well it’s create and over use cliché after cliché. It’s what they do best. Although, sometimes I wish they’d get a hobby or something.
So the other day I noticed something at work. Something I could not pass up sharing with you. To date I believe I’ve only written one other time about work. What surprises me is that the setting for this story takes place in the exact same location that my previous work story did. It’s not in my office, or the training room, or a meeting room, or even the parking lot. No, today’s story, just like last time, takes place in… the restroom, toilet, lavatory, bathroom, crapper, jon, powder room, potty, just to name a few.
The way I got there was rather standard. I had finished some tea, Earl Gray… oddly enough I do need to thank the Germans for my affinity for Earl Gray. Odd I know, but it was in German that I was first introduced to a cup of Earl Gray with a smile of milk and a quarter packet of sugar. It’s absolutely lovely.
The tea, being tea, did what tea does best. It satisfied me and then, after a while, it urged me to stop working and get a little exercise, via a little stroll to the “facilities” and back. When I got into the restroom, I walked up to the urinal, assumed the position and notice that the urinal next to me had been wrapped in a big plastic bad. This was not the odd bit. The restroom has always had a history of abuse and repair. I personally think it has something to do with the fact that we hire a bunch of mentally evolving boys, ages 17 to 24. Hey being of the male persuasion I feel perfectly qualified saying that usually we really don’t begin getting a mental grasp of anything more than ourselves until after 25.
Right, so the urinal wrapped in plastic has been something that I’ve seen before. The thing I wasn’t prepared for was the sign that accompanied the plastic wrapped urinal. Here is an actual photo… don’t worry it’s safe for work.
Yes, a sign in all capital letters saying “DO NOT PEE ON PLASTIC BAG.” I couldn’t help but start chuckling.
Then the realization hit me… there is only one reason why a sign like that would exist… sigh. I put had to put my head down in shame because of my Y chromosomic tie to the male race, more so, to the male whose actions resulted in that sign being made in the first place. Yep, there’s always that one exceptionally under evolved member of your phylum that ends up doing some like that making an entire group of people look bad.
Still, I do laugh a bit every time I look at that sign. I guess you could call it toilet humor… in an odd kind of way that really isn’t all that funny if you start to analyze it too much. Still, at face value, I thought some of you might get a bit of an unprepared smile from it. I think that’s it then. I wash my hands of it. I just hope that the next time share a working observation, it takes place in a different room.
Google Images, key words: desk job, Office Space, and Earl Gray.