Sunday, December 18, 2016

The Douche Machine

My mailbox at the WWHQ.
     Many of you might remember how, oh so many years ago, I was paranoid that my mailman would be mad at me if I didn't make sure to shovel the sidewalk to the mailbox which was otherwise unused.  And because I was and am to this day really bad about getting my mail on a regular basis. For whatever reason, despite being a media mogul and one of the most corrupt and unscrupulous foundry owner in all of North Korea (The Kim Jong Il Metal Foundry, the Glorious Rising Sun of all Metal Foundries), and being notoriously uncaring about the plight of my Unpaid Interns, I am still a man who just wants to be love.  The fact that I choose a mixture of forced compliance (see above) and desperate yet passive/aggressive means to do it probably has my friendly local mental health professional, who charges by the hour, drooling and wondering what color their new Mercedes is going to be.
    Anyway, all of those many mailman-related fears came rushing back to me the other day when I was in the bathroom, because what better place to feel totally insecure.  Right?  Here is a room which is designed for all of the gross stuff we as humans have to so to survive:  We pee, we crap.  It is the one room where it is totally okay to just rip a tremendous fart even if someone else is in there.  That is why we have a bathroom.  But that is also why we have scented things in the bathroom.  To cover up all that disgusting stuff because although essential and although corralled into a single room, it is still disgusting to our delicate sensibilities.
    And so when the motion sensor scent releasing machine - let's call it the Douche Machine - went off as soon as I passed gas while peeing at the urinal (multi-tasking, I was multi-tasking) I immediately got both self-conscious and offended, because I was pretty sure that someone timed it that way on purpose.
    They didn't.  I know that.  You know that.  The whole world knows that.  I can already hear what you are going to say, Company.  "Those things just have little motion sensors in them and they go off when they sense motion."  Or maybe "They are on a timer so settle yourself to stop being all butt-hurt, Big Dave.  Pun definitely intended."  But here is the thing: The Douche Machine didn't go off when I walked into the bathroom.  It didn't go off when I whipped out my other Big Dave.  And it didn't go off when I unleashed my stream of justice down upon the urinal cake.  No, no it did not.  It waited until two seconds after the exact moment when I finished venting my aft torpedo tube if you know what I mean.  Then BAM!  The scent of elderberries filled the room.  Or vanilla.  Or pine scent.  I don't know, I am a boy, I can't tell these things apart.  It might have even been sandalwood.  But I will tell you this: It was way too close to be a coincidence.  Right?
Oh look! Now there are three Douche Machines.
     There had to be a person watching somewhere who hit a big red button on their desk when they saw that.  Or heard it, because I am assuming that the sick freak has audio in the bathroom.  So why play that game with someone?  Why do that?  Let me stand there in my own stink while I zip my fly and wash my hands.  Then hit the Douche Machine button when I leave.  Or spray it right when I walk in so I can think that I am in a rose garden when I am taking a leak, which would be appropriate because in the summer I pee in the rose garden outside the Worldwide Headquarters all the time.  But don't spray the thing right when I cut the cheese.  That is just inappropriate.
     Of course there is no person with a camera and microphone in the bathroom who controls the Douche Machine.  I know that, Company.  I am pretty sure that it is on a timer because I have heard it douche lavender or whatever scent when I am walking by in the hallway and I know there is nobody in the bathroom.  I can put two and two together on occasion.  But sometimes when I do, it makes five.  Especially when it is multiplied by my crippling insecurity.  I mean, I both shower and wear deodorant, so I am obviously doubly concerned about smelling fresh, like the coast of Ireland or whatever.  And I even use soap in the shower!  So when it just so happens that the random plastic timer on the Douche Machine reaches the "douche" setting right as I perform one of the odorous functions that it is perfectly acceptable to do in the bathroom, 2+2 will equal 5 every single time. Every. Single. Time.

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