dreadcrumbs

Back at it...maybe

You know how sometimes you suddenly notice something small about someone, something, it turns out, that bugs you? You've maybe known the person for a few months, and just now notice the thing? Like they click their teeth every time they stop to consider something, smack their lips louder than seems warranted, wheeze ever-so-slightly when they breathe, or don't post to their blogs for months at a time? After you notice that thing, you can't stop noticing it, and it irritates you way more than it should. And you wonder how you got by all those months not noticing, not caring?

I don't really have a current example of this with people - after the first few times of it happening to me I started to develop a kind of applied ignorance, and have since erected so many blockades to social awareness that I rarely notice anybody.

But books, see, books, I haven't been able to do this with. Sometimes something creeps up in my reading that has probably been in literature forever, never troubling me, and then I notice. And I can't help but keep noticing. The general lack of believable female protagonists, evil clergymen, telling rather than showing...these are just a few I currently have difficulty not noticing. The book I'm reading now, though, has brought another to light. Fake language. Using words and names that have no basis in any recognizable linguistic structure. Especially for things that already have perfectly good culture-neutral terms in place. I don't know why this hasn't bugged me before. I've read science fiction, fantasy, and comic books for nigh on 30 years now, and those genres are replete with that kind of stuff. Tolkien has lots of weird words, but he was a linguist, and they sounded like they could actually exist. Maybe because they were modifications of real terms. Ancient terms, maybe, obsolete terms, perhaps, but they had the weight of human culture behind them to give meaning.

And I've nothing against created languages. I love them. I think they're awesome exercises in the analysis of language and human verbal communication. I even tried to learn Klingon at one point.  But using those languages, or more often, other author-invented languages with no actual structure or depth, is a retarded way to write a book. In my opinion. It seems like a cheap way to say "this is a different culture" without actually showing that it is a different culture. A little of this is forgivable, but unless it fuels the story, it cripples it. Let me give you an example. An "homage," if you will, to the book I'm reading:

Upper H'cloi Vesratta eyed her diblaf, Elcyr Hvish. He was short, even shorter than the average shem'cha from the mountains of Mebilia. His clan, Katruboi, was known for their elaborate kinsho, one of which Elcyr wore at his throat, a little too tightly. 

Elcyr bobbed his head. "You summoned me, my H'cloi?"  

"Yes, my diblaf," said Vesratta. "You are Katrub, no?"

Elcyr's hand unconsciously drifted to his bejeweled kinsho. "Yes, eminent H'cloi, of the unt'cla Aeiyul, and the sunt'cla Hvish." Elcyr said, trailing off. 

"Yes, well, that last bit I knew," Vesratta proclaimed. "The Hvish bit."

Now imagine 300 pages of this. There's actually some good story in the book, some ideas good enough to make me want to finish, but I'm having a hard time enjoying it. I'll have just come to terms with all the "diblaf"s when a "seiyjou" or a "Yjhoen" is thrown at me. And then I'll go to the author's online forum where another reader had difficulty determining from context what a "seiyjou" was, posted a question, and found out it was just an "Obterian tribesman's term for a 'club.'" Those struggling with just how to say the names aloud can also discover that "Yjhoen" is prounounced  "just as an Englishman might say 'John'." 

John. The dude's name is John. And s/he wrote it "Yjhoen." Come on.

No, you don't get to know the book or the author. I might meet he/she/it one day, and they might have been one of the four people to read this entry.  

The Dust Mothers

Hey folks - It seemed an injustice to myself and the holiday of Halloween to not make an entry this week...maybe it will help break the curse put on me by that gypsy who felt my stories were not meant to be read.

In any case, I am being interviewed in comic form over at Space Station Nathan. Go take a look when you get a chance. You'll probably want to start with the first "episode" here.

In the interview, I mention being scared of something called "The Dust Mothers." As people probably aren't as aware of them as I am, I thought I would use this space to get the word out:

The tradition may date back to a discovery in the Abu el-Naga area in Western Thebes, where a small tomb of an unknown woman was unearthed. The relative opulence of the tomb suggested some kind of royalty, but the only identifying cartouche found looked to have been deliberately damaged, and was unreadable. The tomb was unique in that although there were a number of small mummified bodies surrounding the base of the sarcophagus, the figure *in* the sarcophagus was, while curiously well preserved, not mummified at all. Further investigation showed the small bodies to not be human remains at all, but rather a collection of animal bones wrapped to resemble the shape of a child.

The Egyptian discovery itself is a little troubling, especially if we give credence to the rumors that the remains of the non-mummified "Mother" were not destroyed or stolen, but rather "disappeared" while being shipped to the United Kingdom.

Two other events that may or may not be related to this strain of horror are the stories of Zdenka Skovajsova, a puppeteer in 15th century Prague, and Mary Lawrence, presumably a resident of the Roanoke colony before it was lost.

Skovajsova gained some renown in post-medieval Czechoslovakia as a street performer, so much so that she was invited at one point to perform for regent George Podebrad in a celebratory gala. At some point in the festivities, a child of the court went missing and was later found in the home of Skovajsova, arms and legs bound with string. It was also discovered that not only had Skovajsova, while a woman, been posing as a man for many years, but that many of the marionettes she used in her performances were in fact tiny, well-preserved corpses. She was burned at the stake for her crimes, though records say the body was never fully consumed before a seasonal downpour doused the flames.

Mary Lawrence is indicated by surviving records to be one of the members of the unfortunate Roanoke Colony that disappeared without warning in 1587. The colonists were never found, and no clues to their fate offered, aside from the word "CROATOAN" carved in a nearby tree. Explorers desperate to find information as to the colony's whereabouts did eventually uncover what appeared to be a concealed butchery beneath the residence of Lawrence:

"...though beneath the cabinne of one Mary Lawrence was found thrice many oddities; These being the very hole and stair concealed in the floor and what within the earthen place was founde --- Tools and commodities of a tannery though there be no fire, knives and stakes and tongs, ancient blood on a stone plat, scattered bones of small beasts...moste curious of all were the dolls of children that lay as if sleeping, queer, fashioned as they were of shreds of tanned skinnes and leather discard, heads blank but for a rough hewn slits in the place of a mouthe."

It is my understanding that the explorers later determined the place to be of no relevance to the search for the colonists, buried the hidden room completely, and burned the house atop it to the ground.

Other more contemporary stories of the same type are scattered through newspapers and local folklore, though people tend not to want to discuss them much. I'm sure if you look close enough, you'll find them.

"[Variable] Visit"

So my wife has been commenting in her blog about how The Reader is really a 50% partner in the creation of a story, and since I'm a lazy writer, I wanted to see if I could bump that percentage up a bit. Make you do more of the work, and then I would still take credit for the story. But no blame. You can keep the blame. I only want the credit.

My initial intent with this story was to create a web-based mad-libs style story generator with a dread-crummy framework. I would have dropdown lists or open text fields for the reader to provide their own elements, and thereby create their own story. In making it, though, I found I kind of liked what the generic blocks ended up doing to the story (or not doing), so I thought I’d just leave them in, as is, and maybe let you fill in the blocks mentally. Plus, less programming to do that way.
 
----------------

[Month name]. My turn to visit [Name]. What’s more, it was [weather verb]ing when I left, and I ended up arriving late. [Name] hates it when I'm late. And I hate [weather verb].
 
I make good time, regardless, but [hesitation verb] before the [entrance type] when I hear a brief [animal noise] beyond.

I could probably get away with skipping the visit. I could. No one would know. Except me. And maybe [Name], but who really knows about [gender pronoun] at this point?
 
[Active personal sacrifice idiom], I [walk type] in [adverb], and am greeted with a [weather term] of [nonstandard odor] and [biological excretion].
 
The space is dark, lit only by a small [opening type] to the outside world high above. [Name] is at the far end of the space, [possessive pronoun] back to me, attention apparently focused on [possessive pronoun] [piece of furniture], absently [contact verb]ing it with a/an [adjective] [body part].
 
“I have this month's [delivery item], [Name]” I say.
 
“Your turn, was it?” [Name] says, without turning around. “You always seem to get [Month name]s.”
 
“I guess so,” I say. “So, where do you want it? On the [piece of furniture]?”
 
“No!” [gender pronoun] [extreme communication verb]s.
 
I wait for a moment, a little stunned, and finally [Name] [subdued communication verb]s “There beside the [something one might find in an abattoir] is fine.”
 
“Okay,” I say, carefully setting the [delivery item] down.
 
“It’s because the [piece of furniture] is occupied, you see,” [gender pronoun] says.
 
I [view verb] over, but [Name] is between me and the [piece of furniture], so I see nothing.
 
“No problem,” I say. “I just put it here beside the…er...[something one might find in an abattoir].”
 
“It’s because I found something,” [gender pronoun] says.
 
“You did?” I ask, and [Name] [awkward movement]s to the side, [gesture]ing to something [physical positioning verb] atop the [piece of furniture]. It looks to be a roughly [shape adjective] shape about the size of a [small animal].
 
“It’s a/an [archaic religious object],” [Name] says. “And it [something people do].”
 
“It [something people do]?” I say, edging closer.
 
“For me it does,” [gender pronoun] says.
 
Closer now, I was able to make out the object on the [piece of furniture] with a little more unfortunate detail. [Name] had said it was a/an [archaic religious object], whatever that was, but it looked to me like a/an [adjective] [something biological]. And it was [coverage past participle] with something, probably [disturbing noun]s. Maybe that’s what made it a/an [archaic religious object], but I wasn’t about to ask. Something about it made me feel [something one might feel if trapped in a greasy wool envelope].
 
“[Dismissive statement],” I say.
 
“It deserves respect,” [Name] says.
 
“I’m sure it does,” I say, edging away.
 
“You’ll need to [interaction] it before you go,” [Name] says.
 
“I’ll…what?” I ask.
 
“[Interaction] it,” [gender pronoun says], tilting [possessive pronoun] gaze toward me. “So as not to offend.”
 
“I…I don’t think so,” I say, and stumble backward, landing awkwardly on my [body part].
 
Suddenly, much faster than I imagined [gender pronoun] could move, [Name] is at my side, pushing me heavily to the ground with a knee.

“I’ll stab you,” [pronoun] says, but appears to be holding no weapon.
 
“Get..off,” I say, trying to wriggle out from under [prounoun].
 
“I’ll stab you,” [pronoun] says again, holding up a disturbingly [adjective] index finger like [pronoun] is about to start counting off some kind of numbered list, but then turns it to my face. “Probably in the eye, if you don’t show the [archaic religious object] proper respect.”
 
I flick my gaze between [Name], the finger, and the thing on the [piece of furniture], weighing the relative unpleasantness of an eye gouging against just how [negative adjective] actually [interaction]ing that thing would be.
 
And I make my choice.

“Visiting Dad”

When I open the door to Dad’s apartment, I am hit with a wave of rank hot air. The air is moist, and I can smell an odd undercurrent of sweat and grass. Maybe urine. If there was such a thing as a sauna for horses, it would smell like this.

My father is standing in front of the sliding glass door that leads to his four foot concrete balcony. He has his back to me, and is naked except for what looks like some large belted underpants from the 1940s.

“Cool pants.” I say.

“It’s a modified pillowcase,” he says, not turning around. “I should probably be naked, but I put this on for your benefit.”

“Thank you for that.”

The pillowcase he is wearing has what looks like a wet spot blossoming out from the base of his spine, where he has it fastened to him with a black dress belt. I’ve just about convinced myself that it is sweat when he speaks.

“What’s the worst part of being a cannibal, Greg?”

“I don’t know, what?” I say, wandering over to the refrigerator. I need something cool to drink. It’s just too hot in here.

He rests his hand on the glass, and suddenly seems very tired. Exhausted maybe, or hungry. “It wasn’t a joke,” he says. “I honestly want your opinion.”

Opening the fridge, I find it empty, except for a few open packs of string cheese. “Um...fridge space?”

He leans his head on the glass of the window, and it makes a brief rubbery squeak. “Seriously, though,” he says. “What makes it a bad thing?”

I leave the refrigerator door open and sit down in front of it. I can’t imagine Dad will mind, at least not right now.

“I don’t know, gag reflex?” I say. “Things that make us gag when placed in our mouth tend to be...um...culturally inappropriate. Feces, vomit, body parts...”

He interrupts me. “I think it’s the murder,” he says. He hasn’t turned around, but I know he twitched his head, because I heard it slip on the glass. “When you think of that soccer team stranded in the Alps...”

“Andes.”

He turns around, resting his back on the window. “When you think of them,” he says, “you have more empathy for those that ate the already-dead casualties than for the ones that hunted down survivors and killed them for their meat.”

“I’m not sure it happened that way,” I say.

He slides to the floor, the sweat of his back leaving a long greasy smear on the glass door.

“But killing people for their meat and then eating them is worse, morally, than just eating human meat,” he says.

“I guess. Sure,” I say. “Two bad things is worse than one bad thing.”

My father tilts his head and stares sidelong out the window for a few seconds. He hasn’t really looked at me this whole time, just staring into the distance, idly bored, like he’s waiting for something.

“I’m not a cannibal, you know,” he says.

“I never thought so,” I say, and my stomach growls, which seems odd, considering what he just said.

“But I think about it sometimes,” he says, and it sounds strangely mournful, like he’s remembering a cherished relative who died years ago.

“Ah.”

He sighs loudly, closes his eyes and drops his head. “I wish there was a way to try the meat, you know?” he mutters. “Just try it, but not have to kill anybody, or eat meat that’s been lying around for days. Or weeks. That’s just gross.”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes it is.”

His eyes open, and he finally looks at me. Not right at me, but at a spot just above my right shoulder. “I have a plan, though,” he says.

“Does this have to do with the pillowcase?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Not really. Sort of. The pillowcase has more to do with you. The being naked part is, though.”

“And the heat?” I ask.

He seems to notice for the first time that I’m sitting in front of an open refrigerator and shivers. “That’s mostly to keep me warm while I’m naked, but I’m also hoping to create a comfortable environment for them.”

“Them?” I ask, looking around. I’m worried he might be keeping some kind of animal in here.


“The dragons,” he says.

“Of course,” I say, sighing. I shouldn’t be as disheartened as I am, since there is a possibility he might talking about komodo dragons, but I’m pretty sure he isn’t. Then I wonder how I got to the place where the prospect of my father keeping komodo dragons in his one bedroom apartment is a reassuring thought.

“I am going to lure a dragon to me, you see, and then I will live in its mouth,” he says. If he wasn’t so tired, it might have actually sounded triumphant.

“It seems a little dangerous,” I say. “With the sharp teeth and fire all around, I mean.”

He seems not to notice I said anything. “I will lie upon a cushion of soft flesh while the beast provides me my daily meat,” he says. “I don’t have to hurt anyone. I won’t need to work, I won’t need to go shopping, I won’t even need to go to the restroom. I can just be, and all my needs will be provided for.”

“So how long have you been waiting? You know, for a dragon to show up?”

“Too long,” he says, tapping the glass on his sliding door. “I’m beginning to think they don’t exist.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too. I’m pretty sure they’ve gone extinct.”

“That’s not good,” he says, troubled.

“I guess not,” I say. “It kind of ruins your plan.”

Dad ponders silently for a moment.

“No dragons?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say.

He turns to stare out the window again.

“I guess you can go ahead and put on some pants,” I say.

“A hippo, then,” he whispers.

“What?”

He turns, looking right at that spot above my shoulder. “I will lure a hippopotamus to me,” he says. “And then I will live in its mouth.”

“A hippo?” I ask.

“Hm.”

I watch him for a moment. His eyes are active, darting around from what looks like one corner of his ceiling to another. I’m pretty sure hippos don’t eat people, but I’m no expert. Maybe they do. I don’t want to shatter Dad’s dreams twice today in any case, so I don’t bring it up.

“All right then, Pop,” I say, standing. “I’m heading out.”

“All right,” he says. “Shut the fridge on the way out, will you?”

I stand, closing the refrigerator door with a wet thunk. “Happy Father’s Day,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, clearly thinking about something else. “You too.”

"First Impressions"

I approach the door with as much zeal as I can muster. Joey is supposed to be here, but I don’t see him.

“Are you wearing...cargo pants?” I hear whispered behind me.

Whirling around I see Joey, crouched in the shadows. 

“What’s the matter with you?” he hisses, rising slowly to his full five feet six inches. He’s dressed almost entirely in black leather. Or maybe purple. It’s too dark to tell for sure, but I’m pretty sure he’d do black.

“What do you mean?” I ask, looking down at my pants.

“Shock and awe, man. Shock and awe,” he says, shuffling into the moonlight.

“What?” I say, perplexed both by his words and the now-visible red smear on his mouth. It looks like he put on heavy lipstick and then ravenously ate a tomato.

“First impressions, chief. We’re here to impress. To stun. To frighten a little.”

We stare at each other for a second or two. I’m not sure if we’re having a fight or not.

“So what did you do to your face?” I ask. I try not to sound judgmental.

“I made love to a tyranny of razor blades,” he says, too quickly. 

“Yeah,” I say. “No, really.”

“Lipstick and tomato,” he says.

“My lipstick?” I ask.

He shrugs. “You never use it,” he says.

“That’s not the point,” I say.

“Whatever,” he says. “We were talking about your cargo pants.”

“We were?”

“They send the wrong impression,” he says.

“That I’m practical? Interested in utility and comfort, maybe?”

“Yes! You’re totally missing the point. We need him on the defensive.”

“You want me to take them off, maybe?”

“Yes!...No!...um...maybe you could rip them a little.”

“I like these pants. I’m not ripping them.”

He glowers at me, and I take the opportunity to look at my watch.

“We’re already late,” I say.

“I guess that’s something,” Joey mutters.

I open the front door to the school and hold it for him as he clomps up the stairs.

“What’s your teacher’s name?” I ask.

“Mr. Berger,” he says. 

“His first name Ham?” I ask.

“Not funny, Mom,” he says. “Let’s just get this over with.”

"Minor Emancipation"

Johnny wakes up on Monday morning at 6:30, just like he’s done ever since he started third grade.  He gets dressed, makes his own breakfast (Froot Loops), packs his school bag, and crouches down to kiss his mother’s head before he leaves. Not on the lips, and not just because they’ve started to peel away from her teeth. It’s because he’s a big boy, and he knows he’s a big boy, and big boys don’t kiss on the lips.

"Changeling"

The boy who took my place in the family visits sometimes. He leaves little pieces of cooked meat on my shoulder when I sleep, just close enough for me to reach with my teeth. He tells me what everyone is doing, about my old friends, and the funny things my baby sister does. He says mom and dad are happier now than they've ever been and that they love him a lot. When I cry, he pats my head and asks if I want more meat. He tells me he has lots of spare meat.

Stories by Max

So my four year old son Max wrote me a story for my birthday way back in October, and has been waiting patiently for me to post it on my long-languishing blog to share with the world at large.

Alas, his patience came to an end, and decided to do an end-run around his papa, and start his own blog.

So I'll link to the story here: The Eyeball

I'm so proud of my boy...

Lunchtime Interlude

So I’m sitting in the large conference room at work (the same one which still has the human waste cleanup norms I posted years ago) during lunchtime. I chose to take my lunch here because of the reactionary climate control that seems to take place in the office every time the outdoor temperature drops below sixty-five degrees. It’s a sauna in cubeville, and while the individuals who spent the summer shivering in puffy coats and hooded cloaks are finally able to relax, those of us with recessive walrus genes are now irritated and sweaty. The large conference room is currently the last bastion of sub-eighty degree temperatures, as long as no one else is in it. And no one is. The table in the center of the conference room sits about ten, fourteen if you have no respect for personal space. I tend to sit at the head (or foot, depending on which way you roll) of the table in this room, even when I’m not alone, so that’s where I am. I should say that that isn’t because I’m usually in charge, or the boss or anything, because I’m not, gracias a Dios. But I *am* physically larger than everyone here, and it’s probably important for people to remember that *really*, if it came down to it, post-apocalypse, we all know who the warlord would be.

Anyway, I eat the bag of chunk-light tuna that is my lunch (or my *first* lunch, because clearly a bag of tuna isn’t enough for a creature of my stature) and sit down to write a blog post. I was shamed at a recent signing for Rapunzel’s Revenge by some of my wife’s fans, who took me to task for not posting more. So I figured I should do *something,* since eating my three ounces of tuna wasn’t going to take the whole lunch hour. I had intended to poach a story that my four year old son wrote me for my birthday, and I probably still will, at least before he turns five, but I wanted to share a bit of dialogue that just happened.

I’m sitting, as I’ve said, at the head of the table, which has me facing the door to the conference room, when Gary (not his real name, of course, because who would really be named Gary?) speedwalks into the room and, upon seeing me, abruptly stops. I don’t know Gary very well - he’s in a part of my department that I don’t usually work with much, and because I’ve stopped going to the morning “stand-up” meetings, I only ever see him in the hallways (which I frequent) and company parties (which I don’t).

I don’t look up from the computer immediately, expecting him to just leave, but he doesn’t. He stands in the door and doesn’t say anything. Really, it was probably only about five seconds that he stood there silently, but it felt like a long time. Eventually I look up.

“Hey,” I say.

“Oh,” he says.

There is a pause where I expect him to tell me what he wants. He has an unposted meeting in this room in five minutes, he wants to do some deep knee bends in privacy, something. Nothing.

“You want some tuna?” I ask, hoping he says no, because there isn’t any left.

He stares.

“Is there a meeting in here?” he finally asks.

“Not until two, as far as I know,” I say.

“Oh,” he says again, still standing there.

Nothing for a minute. I look back at my computer and poke some keys, like I’m actually doing something, but he doesn’t leave.

“I am accepting petitioners until then, however,” I finally say.

“What?” he asks.

“If you have any grievances you’d like redressed, I’m willing to hear them,” I say.

“Um...no,” he says, looking around the room. I think he’s trying to avoid my eyes.

Then he walks out.

It’s a tricky business, nurturing that aura of unapproachability. If you’re cruel or are generally difficult to get along with, you foster hatred, which can actually be a lot more of a hassle than people liking you and wanting to be around you all the time. But having little conversations like the one I just had with our Gary here go a long way toward getting people to leave you alone.

Also, only posting blogs every two months or so tends to keep people away.

The Horrifying Secret March of Human Corruption (and Poo)

The tiny communist on my shoulder has been at me for quite some time to do a post. Okay, to be honest, I don’t know he’s a communist for sure, but he has a hammer and a goatee, so what am I supposed to think?

Anyway, I’ve mostly been listening to the fat guy with the PS3 controller on the other shoulder, but he’s fallen asleep for the moment, so I thought I’d write something just to shut little Lenin up.   

Also, because my topic today has to do with bathrooms, and I’m about one post away from having to rename this blog “Astounding Tales of Toilet Terror,” I was biding my time to see if something less fecal came up, but alas, not the case.

So. Any of you poor souls who have read this blog for any length of time know that I have long considered public restrooms a haven for The Mad. It’s as if the communal waste disposal depot is such an incomprehensible horror that people who enter into it are instantly driven insane, embarking on behavior that would otherwise get them exiled from human civilization. And I’m talking about the men’s bathroom here, folks, though I imagine the repositories of the fairer sex have their own brand of madness and woe. I’ll let my wife do a post about that.
In any case, a review of my top complaints:

1. Urinating anywhere but in the proper receptacle. I have seen way too much splash during my nearly 30 years in civil society. WAY too much. If your quizzical biology somehow renders a single directed stream impossible, sit on the toilet. Do not stand and hope for the best. Sitting to pee does not make you a girl, unless it is one of the 17 toilets situated directly on a ley line.
2. Failing to clean up after yourself. If you leave hair, feces, strange ashy particulate matter (I’ve seen this several times and have no idea what it is), or visible bum-grease on the toilet seat, wipe it off before leaving. I know you can’t remove the bacteria and viruses you’ve undoubtedly also left behind, but please, make an effort.
3. Spitting. Don’t do it. Just...don’t. Yes, I’d prefer you do it in the bathroom to doing it in the hallway, but please. Spitting in the urinal is retarded. Really, it’s proto-human behavior. And the sink? Come on now, we wash our hands there. If you’ve got that much of an excess of snot and phlegm, see a healthcare professional. Or blow your nose. Using tissue paper.
4. Chatting. While sitting on the toilet to pee won’t necessarily turn you into a girl, catching up with your buddies on the sports scores at the urinal most definitely will. Going to the bathroom is not meant to be a social activity any more than sleeping or vomiting is. If the public bathroom is the only place you are able to comfortably connect with humanity, you need to see a therapist. Now.

And, of course, washing your hands. Even if you did sit to pee, and are quite sure nothing moist got on your hands, and are in a devil of a hurry, you *were* in the Realm of the Unclean, so just wash those suckers. It doesn’t take long. If you have a skin condition that causes you to break out in boils when water touches you, wear disposable gloves. And dispose of them. I can’t count how many times I see people walking around the office with dirty disposable gloves on.

*--tangent - I’m eating mixed nuts while I write this, and I just ate what I think was a peanut that looked like a tiny bison skull. It was delicious.--*

Okay, so I bring all this up because I’m in the bathroom the other day, wrapping things up in the stall, when I hear someone stomp in to the bathroom and sidle up to a urinal. There is an overloud sigh, a nasty hacking noise, and some spit. Then someone else comes in.

“Randy!” shouts the man we will soon discover is named
“Dave! We must be on the same watering schedule, brah!” Randy shouts.
“I downed like two gallons of Dew during the call this morning, and now I’m paying for it,” Dave says.
“I know what you mean,” says Randy. It sounds like he’s nodding or shaking his head or something. “I’ve got a keg of agua, a keg! under my desk. Feels like I’m here every half hour!”
*more spitting*
*watery noises I try to ignore*
“You sell that boat?” asks Dave.
“Last week,” says Randy, still sort of shaking or something. “And I made a mint!”
*water noise changes pitch*
“Woah, shoulda worn my waders!” shouts Dave.
*Someone else comes comes in*
“Hey!” says the unnamed someone, who I will call Chester. “Standing room only, huh guys?”
*Chester enters the stall next to mine, leaves the door open *
“You guys on the call this morning?” Chester shouts, way too loud. Something wet speckles the floor near the divider at my feet.
“I was,” says Dave, and a urinal flushes. He does not walk to the sink area, but instead hovers somewhere outside Chester’s stall.
“What did you think about that whole Roger thing?” Chester asks. The speckles under the divider are forming a small pool.
“Eh, not my problem,” says Dave.
Randy’s urinal flushes just as Chester flushes the toilet loudly, possibly using his foot.
“Cha-ching!” shouts Randy. “Owe me a coke!”
“Riiiight,” Chester says. “You owe me A WHISKEY!”
*Uproarious laughter*
At this point, they all tromp off together, giggling, one of them muttering “gotta pay to play, man, gotta pay to play.” Right out the door. Which is to say, no washing of any kind.

So, clearly, I’m traumatized. For therapy, I made a flyer, and hung it up in the workplace bathroom. Here it is: