this last weekend, i was in michigan for a monster of a dance team competition in lake orion. the day prior, my coworkers and i were in the local wal-mart, ransacking it of all candy and office supplies. yes, if you ever should find yourself at such a spectacle, you will now know that we are not fueled by our love for children, our passion for dance, or even our commissions [don't get me started]. we are fueled by candy.
since i had just before had a big, fibrous lunch at bd's mongolian barbeque, i needed to go to the restroom. i'm like a puppy that way -- gotta go right after i eat. i know that may seem like too much information, but people notice this about me and are like, "dude... did you just cackalacka in there? are you bulimic?" just wanted to clear things up: i will do everything in my power to avoid puking.
so i go to the wal-mart bathroom. yes, my male xenotoiletphobic readers, i was actually planning to cheer the browns on to the superbowl at a wal-mart bathroom, and it was a nasty, stanky, ghetto one at that. shake off the schvilkes and keep reading.
so i'm in my stall, trying to hurry my business along, and i hear from outside,
"girl, you don't have to wash your hands. you didn't poop."
[indistinct murmuring from a child, water splashing.]
"what did i just say?! i just said, you din't have to wash your hands! you gonna get it now!"
[hurried footsteps out the door.]
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