Am in a library. Had to use the bathroom. It was a one-person room. Wiped the seat, covered it with toilet paper, sat down. Hey, we’ve all been there.
Sitting for, oh, two minutes. A knock at the door. Another knock. “I’m in here,” I said.
“I’m here with my son,” a woman said. “He has to go. Are you going to be much longer, or should I take him downstairs?”
To be literal, and blunt, I’m pooping. I’m FRIGGIN’ POOPING! I don’t care that your son has to go; I don’t care that you’re too lazy to walk one (one!) flight of steps to locate the other bathroom here. There is standard bathroom protocol in this country, and it does not involve asking a person, through the door, whether he can rapidly finish his crap so that Junior can commence his.
Amen.
