The toilet in the men's restroom near my desk must be powered by jet fuel. I fear for my life when reaching to flush it, because I never know it could be my last.
What's fun about it, however, is when I know there is someone waiting outside the door for me to finish, so I hit the handle and make a screaming noise that decrescendos like the sound of Wile E. Coyote falling off of a cliff.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Flushed away
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