Thursday, December 04, 2008


This post will likely win me TMI of the year. In fact, TMI is probably a little too cutesy a way of warning that the following might be, cue the italics and scary local news threatening music, too much information. Also, in fine Thunderclap tradition, we return to a scene detailed all too frequently in this blog. I'm talking about, of course, the men's bathroom at my work.

Yesterday was new urinal cake day. Where before there was nothing but a hollow white porcelain bowl, more and more musty with each passing day, now there is a cake, brilliantly pink, a color not found anywhere else in nature, sanitzing and perfuming the entire bathroom from its quiet resting place. And I know you girly readers will have no frame of reference here, but it is a powerful feeling that sweeps over a man, er, possibly just this man, whereby I am encouraged, nay, compelled, to try as hard as I possibly can to destroy said dainty pink cake with my urine.

It becomes a target, a beacon too attractive to ignore, a bullseye, but that bitch is tough. After several days worth of visits I'll manage to make a slight dent in its center, while the whole cake is diminished by countless others disgracefully directionless micturation. Gradually the days will pass, eventually I will be able to move the shrunken cake around with carefully placed stream, and I'll be honest with you, it's kind of fun. But back to the point, I am forced to destroy that damn cake from the center of my being, and nothing less than its complete eradication will do.

At least until the janitor decides to place another in an apparently endless supply of cakes back in the urninal.

A man's work is never done.

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At 11:37 PM , Blogger Jeffrey Beaumont said...

I think one of the attractions of this pursuit, especially if you're wearing nice clothes, is that you're sort of entering dangerous territory when you start chipping away at that little cake. Hit it the wrong way and you've got peepee on your slacks. You've gotta have an eagle eye for that sort of thing. Every man gets a little Top Gun kind of moment when he steps up to the plate in the ol' men's room.


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