There’s a guy who works in the mailroom just down the hall from me who greets me every time he sees me by calling my name out in kind of a sing-song fashion — “Mi-chael…!” It’s a little odd, but not really a big deal.

Unless he does it as he enters the restroom, while I’m standing at the urinal. Suddenly, my name is echoing from tile wall to tile wall, and, well, as delicately as I can put it, all bodily functions immediately cease. That’s just not a good time to be startled.

Shmoe.

[See also: Thunk drinking | Can’t it wait? | Howard Dean in Seattle tomorrow | Great Wall of China disappearing | Caucus Time ]


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