The Bathroom Talker

It is a rough Monday commute. You get into the office, ready to steel yourself against the onslaught of your mind-numbing, Sisyphean job by doing what any red-blooded guy does; you have a cup of coffee and head to the head. Only, your nemesis is there, waiting for you. He is one of the most annoying characters you will meet, the Bathroom Talker.

In my office there are a few of these guys. So, in case you are reading, here is a friendly piece of advice from Uncle Patrick: don’t talk to me while I am in the bathroom. Ever. No exceptions, not even if my office is on fire. There are a few versions of this, so let me break it down for you, man-to-man:

At the urinal—Do me the common courtesy of staring straight ahead at the “P-spot.” Yes, that is the term for that spot you are supposed to stare at while you have your manhood in hand at the urinal. No looking at me, talking about the weather or how it is “another Monday.” Just shut your hole, keep to your business and stop trying to engage me.

In the stall—This is even worse. Now we have a natural barrier that should make it clear it is not to be crossed. A closed door is a closed door; it is meant to be the impenetrable fortress of the office. All I want when I am in there is peace and quiet, not some guy yelling over the top to me about how he can’t wait for the latest episode of the Bachelor. At least in my case, the Bathroom Talkers haven’t tried to look over the top. Yet.

Brushing my teeth-Yes, I do this when I get to the office. Who wants the taste of coffee and sour defeat on their tongue to start the day? Even here the Bathroom Talker is unstoppable. If the walls of the stall do not stop him why would the fact that I am unable to talk be a hindrance. Since everyone in the office knows about my baseball exploits, it becomes a natural topic.

What makes it even worse is when they stand over you, waiting for a response. With that shit-eating grin, the Bathroom Talker is the totem pole of annoyance, staring down at my hunched over figure as I rinse my foamy Crest, waiting for me to enlighten him. Well, guess what; it ain’t going to happen. Once I start talking, the verbal handcuffs come out, keeping me from making an exit.

You see, the Bathroom Talker is so starved for attention that any opportunity for engagement will inevitable result in a five-minute, one-sided conversation about how the Yankees should trade Alfredo Aceves for Johan Santana. And I feel myself getting dumber and more enraged with every passing second.

In a perfect world, on the inside (tribute to comedian Bobby Collins):

BT: “Hey man, what do you think of the Johnny Damon contract?”

Me: Stony silence, not even looking up.

BT: “Yeah I think they should offer him five years, $50 million.

Me: Pthew (spitting out and rinsing)

BT: So, how was your weekend? Mine was great? I spent the whole weekend playing with my cats, loading up on ski masks and mapping out bank locations.

Me: Shut the hell up! Jesus Christ, can’t a guy even brush his f’ing teeth in peace? Do you think I give a rat’s ass about your friggin’ cats? You want to know what I think…

Then I grab his mouth, put it in the bowl and flush. That will stop him. Maybe. Oh, if only the world permitted such breaches of etiquette! I wouldn’t need this blog.

One Response to “The Bathroom Talker”

  1. Evidently you have just as much time on your hands as the rest of us. (And I thought you were doing all of yours and your manager’s work). By the way, you didn’t mention bathroom farters.

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