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Apparently, living in the new office complex is going to require acclimation to the scent of fresh Sulphur poop in a confined space.20160211_135139

There is a new meaning to the term “floater”.  Apparently they really do all float down there and now they have the gift of a matchstick each Monday through Friday.

I met Mister Matchstick as I entered the men’s room the other day.  He was standing at the sink, a book on the counter next to him, a box of Caesar’s Palace matches resting on top of the novel he had very recently been meditating on.  MM looks to be very fastidious, about six inches shorter than me (I am 6’1″ tall), pressed shirt and downtown shoes, one of those cool shaved temple haircuts.  Unfortunately, he fit the stereotype of a guy who is afraid of turd cloud.  The guy must have been terrified.  He wouldn’t look me in the eye, avoided eye contact as he rushed out of the room.  Apparently he was embarrassed — he looked a little flushed (hahahhahahahahhaaaaaaa).

I made sure that I took a nice loud deep breath as he exited.  Ahhhhhhhhhh….

Contrary to what some might be thinking right now, I am not used to people avoiding eye contact with me.  That needed to be cleared up.

The smell of match lingers all afternoon in the small enclosed tile space of that men’s room.

I wonder if he observed Ash Wednesday?  Has that happened already?  My new office suite neighbor observes “Afraid of A@@ Smell Wednesday”.

I shouldn’t make fun of him, butt he inspires a pun(gent) or number two.

Maybe I should leave a candle for him.  There are a few in the bathrooms at my house.  My wife also practices the fine art of match lighting.  Had she met Mister Matchstick before she met me, they would have been a matchstick made in heaven.

OK.  I’m leaving now.  Nature calls.

 

 

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