Newspaper Guys - August 16, 2006

Note: The second part of All Apologies will be up early next week. In the interim, here's this.

I'm assaulted dozens of times a day. In so many ways, I'm forced to view, to listen to, to consider, the absurd, the ugly and the flat out disturbing. These assaults come in various forms. There's Phil from the appellate group who leaves at least one 5mm day glo bright whitehead on his face at all times. You've got Ed from the copy room who smiles broadly - his teeth littered with chunks of roast beef and cheese - while you fill out his copy forms. There's Melvin the mail room assistant who's never heard of deodorant. Oh, and Kathy, the secretary down the hall with emphysema, coughing, then swallowing, then re-coughing back into her mouth the same slug of phlegm all day long. I can't forget Tim, the quiet, lanky, pubescently acned associate down the hall who's perpetually picking his nose. And back in the golden age of corporate casual, before they banned the office sweat suit look, there was Gladys and Delores, the dumpy, lazy, 45ish gave-up-on-life-at-19 200lb assistants who sat outside my office. Gladys, a/k/a "Cameltoe," wore pink or green stretch pants which, strained far beyond the capabilities of state of the art polyester, frequently exposed, as though they were body paint, the outline of the gaping crevice in her udder-like genitals. Dolores, a/k/a "Double Ass," wore pleated women's Dockers three sizes too small, which highlighted an amazing "gunt" that protruded as much in front as her ass did in the back - basically, Homer Simpson's body with a set of tits. With the wrong eyes, on a rough morning after a long night out, you couldn't tell from a modest distance whether she was coming or going.

But these sensory assaults are minor. The most offensive of all the assaults is by far the "Mental Rape." The Mental Rape occurs when someone says something which forces you to visualize them, or someone you know, doing something you'd never want to consider them doing. I can only explain the Mental Rape by doing it to you:

Your boss just walked into your office naked from the waist down, smiling, gripping a huge, throbbing purple erection.

The spinster receptionist who's always talking about her cats has a treasure trail running from her belly button to the small of her back. As you read this, she's furiously itching an eruptive rectal rash.

That bald rat-like tax lawyer down the hall with the huge overbite and greasy combover - the one with the yellow teeth and the sores on his scalp - masturbated into his bathroom sink before leaving for work this morning.

You get the picture. You can't do anything to stop the Mental Rape. As soon as the words leave the speaker's mouth, your brain begins processing them and visualizing their substance. If the image upsets or disturbs you, you only think about it more. You may be stuck envisioning your boss's engorged member for several hours after you finish reading this piece. Worse, you might have already envisioned him firing off a money shot with it.

Usually, mental rapists are well meaning people who don't realize they're battering your brain. Often, it's a new mother talking to another woman. "It got so bad I was bleeding, so I just decided to use the breast pump." This woman has no idea that she's just made it impossible for you to give the letter you're holding to your secretary with whom she was just discussing breast pumping loudly enough for you to overhear. You can't look either one of them in the eye because all you can picture is the new mom with bleeding nipples and an electric vacuum attached to her breasts, like something out of a snuff film.

Sometimes, the offender will think their sharing of intimate details is hip or cool - what the kids do. PJ, a 60ish partner in a firm I once worked in, told a story once about how he and his wife "reconnected" during a vacation abroad a few weeks prior. "I got it all back in action. I hadn't heard the headboard slam the wall like that since college."

Jesus, PJ, I've seen you in a locker room at the gym. You've got bigger tits than your wife. And she's got a fucking beard!

The other offender in this category is the 40ish young partner who's feeling trapped in the early stages of a mid life crisis. "Ted" feels his virility ebbing and wants to remember the stud he believes he once was. This offender awkwardly works the latest vanilla sexual conquest into the conversation. "I miss anything this morning? Kimmy surprised me... Know what I mean? Missed the early meeting, but it was worth it." Whenever I've heard this spiel, I've wished the offender didn't know me. I wanted to snap off, "Whoa, I hear ya there, Ted. I woke up this morning and got a fantastic blow job myself. Does Kim swallow, because Lance... he fucking swallows." That'll teach Ted to run around talking about his wife's pussy.

But of all these mental rapists, the very worst is the Newspaper Guy. Newspaper Guy isn't the guy who sneaks into the men's room with a magazine to squirt out a painful, acidic beer shit while sweating out dry heaves from the previous night's indulgence. Newspaper Guy is the chipper prick who marches down the hall to the men's room every morning, offering a cheery hello to everyone he sees on the way with a newspaper folded prominently under his arm. He's effectively saying to everyone he passes, "Hey! Great to see you! Right now, a huge fecal loaf is pushing against the sides of my bowel! I'm going to walk into the men's room, open the stall, open the paper, fart a few times, read some articles, strain, moan, and then christen a chocolate submarine!"

Good morning, Bob! Enjoy the long shit. Hope it's a smoothy! Don't wipe too hard!

I've been videotaped having sex. I've been to nude beaches. I've had rectal exams administered by female doctors. I'm not shy. It's all been seen before. If you think your equipment is sacred, get over yourself. There are 5 or 6 billion people carrying exactly the same apparati. But I have never, will never, could never even fathom, allowing someone to see or hear me defecate. When I have to do so at the office, I search, or I wait, for an empty men's room. I'll wander for 20 minutes looking for one. If you come in and use the urinal while I'm in a stall, I will become deadly quiet, and I will not make a sound until you leave. If I've just closed the stall and someone stomps in and gets in the stall next to me, I'll pretend I'm done, flush and leave. The only thing worse than the thought of having someone hear me drop the kids off at the pool is listening to someone else do it.

I also work quickly. I'm in. I'm done. I'm gone. I don't adjust my pants thirty times in front of the mirror. When I emerge from the stall, I head straight to the sink, wash and get the fuck out of there. Why anyone would want to make a production of any activity taking place in a room full of piss and shit receptacles baffles me. It's the last place on the planet I'd like to spend any extended period of time. I'd sooner go to a Billy Joel concert.

The Newspaper Guy makes an art of excrement. He'll proudly display the paper as he enters the men's room, advising everyone present of his intention, lest they think he might just be paying a casual visit to the urinal. Next, he looks over the stalls, decides which one is most appealing, and then begins The Ritual. First is the arduous process of removing the pants, which have more buckles, zippers and fasteners than the average piece of luggage. Removing a suit of armor makes less noise. Then comes the opening of the newspaper, which he shakes repeatedly, as though he were struggling to read it on some windy street corner. Next are the coughs, which he hopes will drown out the sound of his string of loose, greasy farts and high pressure piss spray hitting the side of the bowl. Finally, you hear the inevitable plop(s) of the fecal loaf/loaves into the water.

You only get the cough if he's polite. Some sit silently and have you to listen to whole piece uninterrupted, leaving you with the maddening curiosity - "Was that sub big enough to cause a stream of water to splash up and hit him in the ass?" The worst will talk to you during the process:

"Hey, did you hear about the Fletcher decision?"

" Uh... no. No... I, uh, hadn't."

"Well, the... (grunt, pause)... judge really.... uhhhhh (grunt)... nailed them."

"Great... great."

The dialogue is almost like play by play. You know when all the action's happening. But it's lousy play by play; you wish Keith Jackson were behind the bowl... "He's going for it. Oh, he's scrambling out of the pocket. Oh my, oh my he's... ohhh... that's going to hurt. Cut in half just before the first down. There's going to be an awwwful lot of wiping there."

Cue the sound of the toilet paper being pulled from the roll and wadded in his hands. Thankfully, the flush usually covers the sound of the wiping.

Newspaper Guys are often long married or the most troll-like of "Men's Men." No single man with any sense passes an army of female coworkers every morning advertising the punctuality of his colon. A single man is still attuned to what's considered attractive and what's not. He knows women are detail processing machines - that they spy the newspaper under the arm and immediately think about the carrier straining out a dump. Not an attractive image.

It's not the shitting that's unattractive - it's the Celebration of the Shit. Shitting's a daily exercise, one of the few things Katie Couric, the Dali Lamma and Chester the Janitor with the 1000 Yard Stare all did yesterday. It's a great equalizer of sorts, reminding us that, as Dylan noted, "even the President of the United States sometimes must have to stand naked." And take a shit. But it's no one's greatest moment. If shitting's important enough to justify a ritual, you need a hobby. If it's long enough that you can finish a meaningful newspaper article, you need a colonoscopy. If you just enjoy sitting there - if a hotbox of stale farts and acrid urine fumes provides an escape - you need a therapist.

The married Newspaper Guys forgot years ago that not every woman is their wife. They assume all women are as familiar with and acclimated to their bathroom habits as their wife. The Men's Men seem to think the newspaper-under-arm strut fits into a continuum of what they perceive to be, or have been informed by sitcoms, is manly behavior. These are the same men who almost exclusively discuss steak joints, strip clubs, cigars, single malts and, when they get old, golf. I love steak, whiskey and strip clubs, but I never understood these bullshit Men's Men. Really, who the fuck wants to be a "Man's Man"? Literally taken, the words mean "owned by a man." If I wanted that, I'd go to prison. But this analysis is all just mental masturbation. The rare, pure, archetypal Man's Man is just a guy who can't get laid. He's joined the male nunnery. It meets nightly starting at 8:00 at Schooner's Wings and Ale.

Whatever man you are, the very last thing you want to do to any woman, be she a possible one night stand, your future wife or a mere coworker, is make her think about what you look like squeezing out a cobra. Next time you reach for that copy of the Journal as you head off to the bathroom, think again. Would you pass out Polaroids of yourself sitting on the bowl, your skid marked boxers hanging around your chicken legs and brown ankle socks? That's exactly what you'll be doing if you pick up that paper.

Posted by PhilaLawyer at 10:51 PM

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Comments

Im so ashamed. I'm a Newspaper Guy. I Didn't know until now.

Posted by: Dexxter Longreen at August 16, 2006 11:25 PM

Another great post, Phila. I'd read more, but my laptop becomes unconfortably hot when it sits on my bare, hairy thighs as I produce copious bumpy brownfish.

Posted by: Chocolate Starfish at August 17, 2006 12:05 AM

THIS MAN. HE SPEAKS THE TRUTH!

Posted by: Marcus at August 17, 2006 02:04 AM

ROTBFLMSAO!!!!

Well done. The only thing that I can imagine that would be worse would be a bathroom containing three newspaper guys all speaking to each other in Vietnamese and giving you strange looks. No offence. That would be scary.

Posted by: Penkse at August 17, 2006 09:35 AM

Long dumps are the best. Just sit back and philosophize.

Posted by: Mark at August 17, 2006 12:04 PM

You have a remarkable gift for descriptive imagery. Please fuck off while I go scrub my brain clean of my boss' giant mantool.

Posted by: Leroy at August 17, 2006 01:34 PM

I work in a small office and there is only one men's bathroom but there are enough employees to justify two. The room literally smells of shit morning, noon and night. There's is nothing in this world I hate more than when I can finally go in there (after waiting until no one is currently using the facilities) to do my thing when some clueless fuck takes the stall next to me! Great! Let's play "Dueling Ass Blasts" - you take the bass line and I'll add the melody. What the fuck is wrong with people?

Posted by: Todd at August 17, 2006 01:41 PM

I agree with leroy, your ability for vivid description is uncanny. Excuse me while I kill my brain cells to get rid of your imagery.

Posted by: Joel_Ramos at August 17, 2006 08:19 PM

I am mentally raped on an almost daily basis, by a gaggle of old crones, who congregate at the either end of Warrior Square swimming pool and discuss their 'women's problems'.

Somehow they have managed to make me their bitch.

Posted by: backwards7 at August 17, 2006 08:36 PM

Mark: "Long dumps are the best. Just sit back and philosophize."

About what? How can you possibly philosophise about anything while sitting on a warm, clammy toilet seat, with your trousers and boxers' tightness around your ankles causing numbness in your feet?

I'd rather philosophise sitting on a desperately uncomfortable office seat staring into a horrible flickering screen with my hands ready to pounce on the Windows Key and M to hide my... ahem... computer usage... from my college teacher.

As for the graphic detail, what's the matter with you!? This shit happens all the time!!

Dave
England.

Posted by: Dave at August 18, 2006 11:20 AM

As much as I tend to agree with most of what you've written, I've gotta disagree with you on this one. I work in sales in a busy office in a job which requires me to juggle sometimes 10 things at once without forgetting anything. I can be halfway through writing an important proposal which needs to be sent off ASAP while talking on the phone and having something waved in front of my face for approval. The only time I actually can count on having no interruptions and enough time to actually read something and digest it is on the big porcelain phone. If that bothers anyone else in the office that's their problem not mine.

Posted by: Dicko at August 18, 2006 04:58 PM

Fuck, Dicko, and do you also stroll down to the bathroom and wave your paper to everyone as you walk by?

Fucking sickie.

Posted by: Mustafa Gunt at August 19, 2006 03:19 AM

well done phila, these comments suck tho

Posted by: some1 at August 20, 2006 08:04 PM

To reinforce this article, women do find this habit of men VERY unattractive, we also find it unattractive in husbands and boyfriends.
We also find poor grammer and the phonetic spelling of words unattractive as well. Huuked on fon-eks reminds me that men aren't really men, they're retarded little boys.

Posted by: kate at August 20, 2006 11:23 PM

Mustafa Gunt - like I said, "that's their problem not mine." If you can't handle the fact that I'm gonna take a shit, go home and put some ice on your fucking yeast infection.

Posted by: Dicko at August 21, 2006 02:26 PM

great story

Posted by: Jack Mehoff at August 21, 2006 03:34 PM

"Grammer"? Perhaps you're a retarded little girl.

Posted by: Wong at August 21, 2006 04:51 PM

Oh, she finds "poor grammer and the phonetic spelling of words unattractive." Hey some1, next time you try to ridicule a group of males for improper spelling and grammar...you should fucking spell words correctly yourself.

Posted by: Matt at August 22, 2006 05:52 PM

Really liked this story! It's the first I've read since coming back to college. It reminded me to Chuck Palahniuk - hope you don't mind the comparison ;)

Posted by: Kelly at August 23, 2006 10:24 AM

Or maybe, that error was deliberate...

That's a common ironical joke.

Posted by: Dave at August 23, 2006 03:00 PM

I always carry the paper with me for my morning answer to nature. I am also acutely aware that everyone I see on my way there knows that I'm about to go take a shit, and I keep my eyes down and don't greet anyone unless they greet me. However, after this awakening you've provided, I am now proud to say that I've hidden my paper in my shirt everyday this week. I've stood in front of the mirror and I can't see it. It's the best of both worlds.

Until someone walks in on me stuffing a newspaper down my shirt that is.

Posted by: Cody at August 23, 2006 07:06 PM

"If you come in and use the urinal while I'm in a stall, I will become deadly quiet, and I will not make a sound until you leave."

You do that too? I thought it was only me, but I'm not alone! I try not to spend more than five minutes in the stall. I don't understand spending 20 minutes in a public stall and enjoying it like Newpaper Guy.

Posted by: Ben at August 30, 2006 08:26 PM

The wonderful world of Irritable Bowel Syndrome. My IBS makes a typical dump take 20-40 minutes and often includes long stretches of intense pain. I'll be damned if I have nothing to do during that time other than focus on the pain and the stench. I'll also be damned if I have to carry in any distraction that I want to hang on to after I leave the bathroom. The janitors here suck and the bathroom is worse than a roach motel. Thus the newspaper is the perfect IBS distraction, because I can toss it in the bathroom wastebasket before I scrub my hands like a surgeon.

In one concession to the grossness of broadcasting my bowel habits to the office, I've discovered that I can buy pants with deep pockets that will almost completely conceal a folded newspaper. A hand casually thrust into the top of the pocket completes the camouflage of my intent, except to the most perceptive.

IBS sucks, and so far the doctors haven't been able to give me a cure that is better than the disease. Spare a thought for those of us in torture before you condemn all of us Newspaperguys.

Posted by: NewspaperGuy at September 5, 2006 09:40 PM

Absolutely hilarious and true - nothing to brighten an otherwise crappy day with laughter that makes my sides hurt! What really gets me is when people do the Newspaper Man thing in porto-potties, especially when it's the only one for a few kilometers! I once had a reserach collaborator who took some papers to grade with him into one of those things and he didn't come out for half an hour and the rest of us had to just use the local vegetation, which really sucked because it was mostly scratchy invasive grasses and mustard shrubs.

Posted by: RecurveHawk at September 11, 2006 08:46 PM

I enjoy the Paper walk. It is the only way I get back at my peers for the Shitholes that every one of them are. Further, I wait exactly one half hour from the time I get there until everybody else arrives to shit. I NEVER shit on my own time. I WILL get paid for that half hour shit AND my lunch hour. And I will stink that bastard up. AND I will turn off the fucking fan.

Posted by: Kutter at September 15, 2006 04:32 PM

Haha...So what's your suggestion for when you're staying with a girl in a tiny apartment (where the bathroom, bedroom, and living room are within a money shot of each other) and have to squeeze off about 5lbs worth of bowel leftovers? No time to run to the nearest restaurant/store/gasstation.

Posted by: DK at October 19, 2006 06:50 PM