Crazy-Pops

Flod's last post made me think of this. It's sort of a spin-off blog. Think of it as the "Three's Company Too" of the Crazy Pops blog:

When I used to work for the man, many many years ago, or 5 years ago, anyway, I had a boss who I loved dearly. He was a great guy - genuinely cared about his employees, great personality, and he had a fantastic rapport with clients. That's the word of the day, by the way: rapport. Taste it. Chew it. Sprinkle it through your conversations like salt in a pre-prepared package of pork loin bought at Safeway. Why the hell do they have to put so much freaking salt in that thing? Anyhow, this boss was great in every way, except one: He liked to talk in the bathroom. And not as in, "I believe I'll sit here on my throne and call everybody I know on my cell phone" talk, but as in, "talk to you personally." So many times I'd be standing there at the urinal, taking care of business, emptying out the hull of my aircraft carrier, as it were, and I'd hear the door open behind me and I'd hear, "So, Jeff, how's the ABC project going?" Which, as you probably know, stops the flow of the might river Ganges faster than you can say "innappropriate." Maybe Flod can handle a conversation while he's dipping his noodle; hell, I bet he can give a speech while he's doing it. He's that kind of guy. Me? Not so much. My Airforce One seems to stop flying when it's up in the air and all of a sudden my brain has to come up with a proper response to "Where are my TPS reports, Jeff?" And with this particular boss, it happened a lot. Probably once a month. It got to the point where if I were heading to the bathroom and I saw him heading to the bathroom I'd change my route to the fax machine or the elevator. Which meant I always had to pee when I was at the fax machine, but if I had to become "that weird employee who always has to pee when he's at the fax machine" to ward off the constant conversations with my dick out, so be it.

I always felt like it was an invasion of personal space. Isn't it? I mean, you ladies don't really have the same problem, because you're in a stall all the time. And your boss wouldn't know you were in there unless he or she recognized your shoes. Which, come to think of it, would be really weird. Anyway, I started thinking about it, and I started thinking about the invasion of personal space and how I could get him back and show him how it felt. So I went to his house while he was having sex with his wife. "So, boss, how about that raise I'm supposed to get?" No, okay, I didn't really go to his house while he was having sex with his wife. But that's the fictional punchline to a non-fiction story. That's literary license. Which you can lose if you drink and write.

Have a fantastic day.