Some Serious Sh!t

I'm sorry.

I'm going to have to come down from the usual frivolity here at The Clarity of Night, because today I was faced with a topic of utmost seriousness.

No, my bank didn't fail (yet). No, I didn't suffer a psychotic break during the Biden/Palin debate (please make no inference from the order of these names other than alphabetizing, or, in the alternative my strong preference).

What would you do in this situation:

You're in the offices of a center city law firm. Not the best law firm, but pretty dang respectable. You're preparing to do your stand-up business in the marble-ish bathroom. (Sorry ladies. We're talking the old gush and go. Zippers are such convenient things.)

Suddenly, there is an emphatic blurt from a closed stall.

I know. Indiscretion. It happens.

You're getting ready to move the move the material for off-loading, and you know...it happens.

No biggie.

But then, as I'm thinking about liquid sunshine and warm rivers and tall glasses of lemonade, there's another.

Higher tone. A little more restrained.

Yeah, he was trying harder to keep the bottom-ly baritone to a bare breeze. But, again, you know. More effort doesn't necessary mean discrete gas. Sometimes it means a rising, almost questioning tone. Like, what? Oh was that me?

Maybe not quite as easy to dismiss, I'm returning to the visions of golden rains when, blaaaaaaaaah, bluuuurt, bleephth.

All hell is breaking loose.

You can even hear the half panic/half sighing acceptance of the dude.

There are new notes involved. Vibrato. Complex harmonies.

Basically, Close Encounters of the Third Kind is going down in my bathroom. And this time, I don't want to hitch a ride with the freaky thin aliens.

I'm an adult, right?

Do I laugh?

Do I let slip the slightest snicker?

Because, my friend, I'm biting my lip and practically crying at this point. I'm hoping to God that no one comes in and catches me this way.

I pull away from the urinal, zip up, and hurry to the sink. The smile has broken through regardless, but at least I haven't spit/burst into raucous laughter.

I move my hands to the faucet for the automatic water, and no sooner does the sound of the stream fill the room when,

Bllllaaauuuuuuuurt.

Another sigh.

Dude made it. Good for him.

We all know the sink/flush rule: any extracurricular noises occuring at the onset, or during, the active running of any water source, eliminates the existence of such indulgences, regardless of whether actually heard or not heard at the moment, or progress of, discharge.

Chalk one up for effort. Despite finding himself on the ropes there, he sucked up enough gumption from down deep to hold the big finale until he had cover.

Ah, the sink/flush rule.

Dude had (f)heart.


(Thank you for the indulgence. We'll now be returning to normal Clarity of Night levity.)