In today’s daily edition of “Pooping At McDonalds: we have an age old tale that dates back to prehistoric times when Cro-Magnon man and his buddy had just polished off the last of a giant mastodon carcus and were having words (or probably just grunts) over who got to use the local sink hole first-
As all of the regular followers of this page know, I pay my bills and feed my family by working in the home health industry.
To those of you who don’t follow, you are probably already wowed by my crazy literary skills and likely shocked that I can’t support a family of four, in Los Angeles, on my writing skills alone, and believe me when I tell you, I am just as shocked as you. Alas, it is true, I work in the home health industry to be able to feed my family.
Anyway, here we go-
In the home health industry, our office is our car.
So is our bathroom.
Unless that bathroom is needed for a #2 (that means poop, for those of you that don’t have children), in the case of a #2, our bathroom is McDonalds.
After fifteen years of working in this industry in Los Angeles, there isn’t a gang sign engraved toilet seat in all of Los Angeles that my beautiful buttocks hasn’t squatted on. Why gang bangers want to tag and claim toilet seats in McDonalds, knowing full well that bare-assed home health and homeless people (these are basically the same people) will be squatting on their engraved gang names all day, will never make sense to me, but whatever. Maybe this is the reason why I’ve never been asked to joint a gang.
Anyway, nine of every ten times, everything goes smoothly at McDonalds.
But then there’s those other times when The Bride made her famous jumbalaya breakfast dish, and things are prone to get complicated.
Today, at a McDonalds in Inglewood, was one of those times.
I’m sitting there, for all of twenty seconds, when a large, unkempt person with dreadlocks and a carefully crafted body fragrance that smelled of urine and tequila, walked in, and, if I stuck my tongue out into the air, I could tell that the urine smell was of two varieties of urine.
I commend this gentleman, that’s commitment to a standard right there. The world would be a better place if we all worked as hard at our crafts as this man worked at maintaining his special fragrance.
Anyway, he approached the stall and began looking at me through the crack.
“Yo, bro, you almost done?” he asked.
I wanted to ignore him, but I’d already made the mistake of making eye contact, and, unfortunately, I couldn’t break said eye contact.
He had me locked and loaded.
“Dude, no, I’m not almost done. Please go away.”
He started knocking, still not breaking eye contact with me, nor me with him. It was intense and something either horrifying, or magical, was likely to happen.
My money was on horrifying.
“Yo, brother, you need to hurry that shit up, you’ve been in there all day,” he said.
“I’ve literally been in here less than a minute. Trust me, I don’t want to be in here any longer than necessary.”
He began banging harder.
“Bro, I’m telling you, get the fuck out!”
At this point, he grabbed both sides of the stall and began jiggling the entire thing.
Me- “I could probably get through this more quickly if you stopped shaking the stall and staring at me. It kind of makes me clench up.”
Him- “Oh, you a comedian now? Hurry up, funny man. I ain’t fucking with you and you know that shit true,” he said, now rhyming for some reason.
At this point, I had but two options. I could pinch off, pull up my pants, and leave, or I could try my best to just ignore him. I didn’t have a change of clothes and still had a full day of work ahead of me, so I decided to push through.
The bathroom poet continued to bang and shake, and I closed my eyes and tried to get into a zen state of mind so I could finish business.
Driving on the 405, in Los Angeles, during rush hour, every single day for the past 15 years, I’ve learned how to quickly accept the reality of my situation and patiently press through. I tell myself, “this is your reality, this is what you are doing now. Accept it. Accepting is half the battle.”
Typically, after that, I can get through anything.
And again today, it worked.
After about thirty seconds, I was able to accomplish the mission. Now, all I needed to do was clean up.
I opened my eyes to find the toilet paper.
The bathroom poet had his face pressed up against the crack now, one eye and his nose were actually poking through. Maybe he was trying to smell my business for some weird reason, maybe he was intrigued and wanted to add it to his own fragrance, or maybe he was just trying to isolate his nose from the rest of his body, so that he could get a quick break from smelling himself.
He was no longer knocking or shaking the stall. He looked completely insane and I was a bit frightened that he wanted to make me his girlfriend.
Though I’m pretty sure you already made that assumption regarding my state of mind.
However, I give all the details when I tell a story. This is another example of what separates me from your average every-day writer, and puts me on another stratosphere of excellence, and is yet one more example of why it’s baffling that I can’t support a family of four on my writing skills alone.
“Listen brother, I’m going to wipe myself now. Would you kindly look away?”
“I ain’t yo’ brother, homie; homie don’t know me,” he said, rhyming up a storm.
And so, I wiped myself clean, with a strange poet eye raping me through the crack of the stall.
Yes, I realize I just compared this experience to rape, and yes, I get that this is wrong, and yes, I know that this will probably get me some hate letters, but there’s just two things to know:
1- I can’t think of a better way to describe the experience than to call it an eye raping.
2- I love hate mail. No, seriously, I love it. Maybe it’s because I’m so extremely talented and popular and loved that I need the hate mail to keep me humble, and I’m like, the most humble person of all time, and my humble nature is probably one of the reasons so many people adore me so much.
At any rate, wiping myself while being eye raped by the bathroom poet was every bit as horrible as it sounds.
Eventually, I finished my business. Luckily, it only required a couple swipes back there. The Bride had helped me do a little grooming back there a few days before, which was good timing in relation to this event. I mean, I’m Italian. Sometimes, back there, it’s like trying to get peanut butter out of a shag carpet…
Again, that’s another example of my incredible writing skills. That’s an analogy you won’t find elsewhere in the world of literary excellence.
I stood, tucked in my business, pulled up my drawers, opened the stall, and tried to squeeze past the poet (he didn’t give up an inch of space for me to squeeze past), I avoided eye contact, went to the sink, and began washing my hands.
I had a plan.
Once I saw, under the stall, that his pants were around his ankles, I was going to give the poet some of his own medicine. There is absolutely zero reason to accept what this person did, and he needed to be taught the way I teach my children- by making him experience his own behavior, directed back at him.
Society only survives when we exercise a little common courtesy and kindness. Without it, we have a Mad Max futuristic dystopian existence in which only the strong survive, and I don’t think there’s much of a market for writers in said society, so I’m pressing for the continual common courtesy and kindness from human to human.
Anyway, I wanted to wait until his pants were around his ankles so he couldn’t just open the stall and run after me. I mean, the guy was very large and he was obviously crazy. I wasn’t about to fight a large crazy man in a McDonald’s bathroom. That’s a lose-lose proposition.
I mean, even if I win the fight, I come out of it smelling like two different varieties of urine.
I heard the belt buckle.
I saw the pants drop.
I made my big move.
Banging on his door, rhyming- “Yo, bro, yo, you almost done; I’m out here ’bout to have some fun.”
Him (completely unaware of the reality that I was the same guy he was just fucking with)- “I just got in here mutha fucka, back the fuck up.”
Me- “Yo homie, I’m feeling pretty loose, about to drop a steamy deuce.”
Him- “Fuck off, faggot weirdo.”
At this point, I began shaking the stall, just like he was doing.
“I’m going to poop right outside your door man, you need to hurry.”
Now, just to make it all fair, I leaned into that crack, and made a face like I was trying to let one go. And now I’m going to tell you why you don’t fuck with crazy large men that like to rhyme and who smell like two varieties of urine while in McDonald’s restrooms-
Because it is impossible to anticipate their next move.
With my face pressed to the crack, he lifted a boot and kicked the stall door as hard as he could.
He broke the stall door, and he also mashed the shit out of my right eye.
It seriously hurt.
Then, the slam poet stood up, naked and unafraid, tiny black dick swinging somewhere within the gigantic full bush that was hanging between his tree trunkular Hulk Hogan legs, and he came at me.
Luckily, I’m fast as fuck and his pants were around his ankles. I side-stepped the man, he lunged at me, he fell, and I ran as fast as my legs would take me, leaving that McDonalds, noting to never return.
This has been at 100% true story (actually, it’s probably about 97% percent true. Great writers like me are allowed some creative liberties) I hope you enjoyed today’s daily episode of “Pooping at McDonalds”
If you were not entertained, it’s on you.
If you have a nasty comment to make, please go to http://www.facebook.com/hedadssohard. The most creative insult wins free tickets to the McDonald’s poet poetry slam debut at the Burger King in Lomita, Saturday night.