Jebs

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I don’t care what you do for a living, how much you make, or what salutatory title precedes or follows your name.  If you got to take a dump, you have to take a dump.

Almost everyone new to the workforce will be hesitant to do Number Twos at the office comfort room.  My first month was rife with having to hold my intestinal sausages in until such time that I can go home, lock the bathroom door, and take to the literal cleansing of the bowels.  Of course, you can’t hold on to such behavior for too long.  I don’t know if company health plans ensure for ruptured colons.

I guess taking nonchalant craps are something exclusive to menfolk.  Men more than women are more open about bodily catharsis.  After all, any tree, wall, or utility post is a potential urinal.  We don’t make much of a deal about taking a shat as women do.  Women beat men hands-down at farting inside elevators; they retain their poise.  Poise is not exactly something you retain when you have your underwear bunched down to your knees, and you’re popping out cholera-infected Smurfs from down there.

Yet professionalism and good conduct extends to every company property; yes, even in the comfort room, even at the most private moment of making jebs, you have to conduct yourself properly.  You have to act like you have a wedgie, and you feel like taking a long dump.  You have to stifle every urge to grunt and to groan.  Vocalization helps a lot in ridding yourself out of yesterday’s dinner of munggo, and you really can’t do this in the office bathroom unless you want rumors to spread over your grunting and groaning at the bathroom cubicles.

And then there’s toilet paper.  At the precise moment when you need to say goodbye to those playful little denizens of Oz that have walked down the Brownish-Yellow Brick Road, you realize that there’s no more toilet paper.  Offices may be quick on salaries, but I have yet to see an office that’s quick on restocking bathrooms with loo rolls.  For those who have forgotten to buy them pop-up packs at the MiniStop or 7-Eleven, there’s always the water pail.

Discretion, as a reminder, is the better part of valor.

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