Canyon Country Zephyr page 35

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The pisser in question sported a whole wall of that kind of art, all lined up in a row. And they were totally surrounded by those blue and white tiles that seem to positively radiate under fluorescents. If a snake had sprung up from one of those urinals it wouldn't have surprised me one bit.

So I'm taking a nice casual leak when I hear a low level racket going on in one of the stalls behind me. As everybody knows, it's not unusual to hear odd noises in a public bathroom, but this transcended the general background stuff we're all familiar with.

After I stashed myself and zipped up, I eased around and saw a total of 4 feet showing in stall number 7. I remember that fact because I always considered "7" to be a magic number. At least until now.

I thought it strange that nobody else was in the Men's Room; but then again, the lack of free beer has a big impact on the amount of bathroom activity. Just to get a better perspective on the situation, I slid over to the sink and pretended to scrub up. No point in washing your hands after a pee, but it was a good way to buy some time.

As soon as I turned on the faucet, whoever was in that stall started generating more noise, as if a running sink was the all clear signal. Maybe the sound of water has a tonic effect on people. They say rain is supposed to help folks sleep. I'll have to look into that.

It didn't take an engineering degree to figure out that some form of animal sex was transpiring in that stall. So, I turned the water on high and left it running while I moseyed over for a closer inspection. It was like wanting to go investigate a car wreck beside the highway. When you know something seedy is going on, you just want to take a peek. So, call me a rubber-necker.

The owner of one pair of feet was making a guttural vocalization, not unlike the sound a dog makes when it thinks you're trying to sneak up on it. The other feet were sticking way out from the stall and into the room for anybody to see. It's not everybody that has orangutan toes.

Real quiet, I eased into stall number 6, put down the lid on the John, and climbed up. What a sight!

"So, Judge, how's it going?" I said. "You aren't doing what I think you're doing, are you?" But that's what it looked like to me.

I must've said the wrong thing because the guy getting the job let out a blood curling scream. I think the Judge might've bit down out of shock at hearing my voice. Or anybody's voice, for that matter.

"Well, I better get back to the party," I said. "Happy Halloween!"

I almost bust a gut laughing as that fat-assed Judge jumped up and ran out the door. The other feller just sat there, an empty orangutan mask looking up at him from the tile floor.

I told you things were getting interesting! Nothing like following the Rules of Procedure, huh Judge?

The rest of that Halloween sailed along real smooth. Jasmine, always good for a surprise or two, materialized a pint of George Dickel and pretty soon even that band of hicks started sounding half decent. Just to shake things up, I launched into a spate of dancing. You guessed it: the Monkey. Life is funny like that - one minute you'd pay to be anywhere but the spot you're in; the next minute, it's Hee Haw Time.

By the way......place your right thumb on the end of your nose, palm in. Now curl down

your ring finger and pinkie. That leaves your first two fingers sticking up. Ok. Now, keeping your thumb where it is, wiggle those two fingers up and down.

You just spelled "orgasm" in sign language.

Try it out on a friend.

And now here he was dressed up like a Halloween orangutan, hopping around with his arms hanging low to his sides. I guess he ain't a fan of the Discovery Channel. If he was, he'd know that only chimpanzees act like that.

I have to break in and say that Halloween is the one night of the year when Jasmine outshines everybody. While most folks go to a lot of trouble to affect some bizarre disguise, Jasmine doesn't bother. Every day is a costume day to her. I've seen her go out of the house on an average weekday wearing a slinky black mask, just like Zorro's, only smaller. Can you see that? It always works for her; but I wouldn't do it.

My private Halloween Theory is this:

People tend to wear Halloween costumes that actually give away their true personalities.

Maybe that explains why Judge Farrel was hobbling around like a drunk chimpanzee. I hope he reads this because I'd like to take this moment to say, "Up yours, Judge!"

The Halloween Committee must've been low on funds this year because I didn't see a single can of free beer. That's low in my book. At least they hired a band, although it was impossible to tell if the guys were in costume or not. What's with these new bands? You'd assume, considering that I drive the oldest pick-up truck in my neighborhood, that I'd be a fan of Country music. Not true! But that's the only style of music the Halloween band understood. How many ways can you play G, C, and D? Not many.

Last year a big tornado appeared and tore up half the neighborhood.

Good thing for me, it wasn't my half. That twister must've formed

real fast and jumped to the ground before anybody knew

what was happening. Maybe people watching TV

got some advance warning.

I wouldn't know. The idea that television is a forward step

in man's evolution never sat right with my way of thinking.

They don't call it the idiot box for nothing.

As this was the 1st Anniversary of the Tornado From Hell, people decided to make speeches to commemorate the event. According to all reports, the tornado, while a real tragedy, had succeeded in "bringing the community together." One lady, dressed as The Wicked Witch of the West (and she is, too), even went so far as to say a few words in sign language. That got a rise out of the crowd and the drummer hit a roll. I doubt anybody noticed, but Jasmine signed back some obscure remark about silence being golden. I thought her last sign looked sort of queer; like she was flinging "the bird" at The Wicked Witch of the West.

When the band kicked back in, I figured a run to the Men's Room would break up the boredom. That's when things got interesting.

There's something about the average Men's Room that brings out the worst in people. At least, that's what I think. Maybe it's the morbid fluorescent lights. Studies show that lighting is important. Try taking a first date home and see how hot they are to fornicate under a fluorescent light. If it turns out that they are, you might want to introduce them to a good psychiatrist.

Or maybe it's the smell. What is that stuff they use to sanitize pit stops with, anyway? It must be cheap, because every Men's Room I ever peed in used the same stuff. Few odors could be more recognizable and repulsive at the same time.

My other theory is that urinals have a particular negative impact on the brain and cause otherwise normal people to start acting strange. Didn't some famous artist named Marcel hang a urinal on the wall in a museum and they called it art? There you go!

NedMudd lives in Birmingham, Alabama. He is a regular contributor to The Zephyr.

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	The pisser in question sported a whole wall of that kind of art, all lined up in a row. And they were totally surrounded by those blue and white tiles that seem to positively radiate under fluorescents. If a snake had sprung up from one of those urinals it wouldn't have surprised me one bit. So I'm taking a nice casual leak when I hear a low level racket going on in one of the stalls behind me. As everybody knows, it's not unusual to hear odd noises in a public bathroom, but this transcended the general background stuff we're all familiar with. After I stashed myself and zipped up, I eased around and saw a total of 4 feet showing in stall number 7. I remember that fact because I always considered "7" to be a magic number. At least until now. I thought it strange that nobody else was in the Men's Room; but then again, the lack of free beer has a big impact on the amount of bathroom activity. Just to get a better perspective on the situation, I slid over to the sink and pretended to scrub up. No point in washing your hands after a pee, but it was a good way to buy some time. As soon as I turned on the faucet, whoever was in that stall started generating more noise, as if a running sink was the all clear signal. Maybe the sound of water has a tonic effect on people. They say rain is supposed to help folks sleep. I'll have to look into that. It didn't take an engineering degree to figure out that some form of animal sex was transpiring in that stall. So, I turned the water on high and left it running while I moseyed over for a closer inspection. It was like wanting to go investigate a car wreck beside the highway. When you know something seedy is going on, you just want to take a peek. So, call me a rubber-necker. The owner of one pair of feet was making a guttural vocalization, not unlike the sound a dog makes when it thinks you're trying to sneak up on it. The other feet were sticking way out from the stall and into the room for anybody to see. It's not everybody that has orangutan toes. Real quiet, I eased into stall number 6, put down the lid on the John, and climbed up. What a sight! "So, Judge, how's it going?" I said. "You aren't doing what I think you're doing, are you?" But that's what it looked like to me. I must've said the wrong thing because the guy getting the job let out a blood curling scream. I think the Judge might've bit down out of shock at hearing my voice. Or anybody's voice, for that matter. "Well, I better get back to the party," I said. "Happy Halloween!" I almost bust a gut laughing as that fat-assed Judge jumped up and ran out the door. The other feller just sat there, an empty orangutan mask looking up at him from the tile floor. I told you things were getting interesting! Nothing like following the Rules of Procedure, huh Judge? The rest of that Halloween sailed along real smooth. Jasmine, always good for a surprise or two, materialized a pint of George Dickel and pretty soon even that band of hicks started sounding half decent. Just to shake things up, I launched into a spate of dancing. You guessed it: the Monkey. Life is funny like that - one minute you'd pay to be anywhere but the spot you're in; the next minute, it's Hee Haw Time. By the way......place your right thumb on the end of your nose, palm in. Now curl down your ring finger and pinkie. That leaves your first two fingers sticking up. Ok. Now, keeping your thumb where it is, wiggle those two fingers up and down. You just spelled "orgasm" in sign language. Try it out on a friend. And now here he was dressed up like a Halloween orangutan, hopping around with his arms hanging low to his sides. I guess he ain't a fan of the Discovery Channel. If he was, he'd know that only chimpanzees act like that. I have to break in and say that Halloween is the one night of the year when Jasmine outshines everybody. While most folks go to a lot of trouble to affect some bizarre disguise, Jasmine doesn't bother. Every day is a costume day to her. I've seen her go out of the house on an average weekday wearing a slinky black mask, just like Zorro's, only smaller. Can you see that? It always works for her; but I wouldn't do it. My private Halloween Theory is this: People tend to wear Halloween costumes that actually give away their true personalities. Maybe that explains why Judge Farrel was hobbling around like a drunk chimpanzee. I hope he reads this because I'd like to take this moment to say, "Up yours, Judge!" The Halloween Committee must've been low on funds this year because I didn't see a single can of free beer. That's low in my book. At least they hired a band, although it was impossible to tell if the guys were in costume or not. What's with these new bands? You'd assume, considering that I drive the oldest pick-up truck in my neighborhood, that I'd be a fan of Country music. Not true! But that's the only style of music the Halloween band understood. How many ways can you play G, C, and D? Not many. Last year a big tornado appeared and tore up half the neighborhood. Good thing for me, it wasn't my half. That twister must've formed real fast and jumped to the ground before anybody knew what was happening. Maybe people watching TV got some advance warning. I wouldn't know. The idea that television is a forward step in man's evolution never sat right with my way of thinking. They don't call it the idiot box for nothing. As this was the 1st Anniversary of the Tornado From Hell, people decided to make speeches to commemorate the event. According to all reports, the tornado, while a real tragedy, had succeeded in "bringing the community together." One lady, dressed as The Wicked Witch of the West (and she is, too), even went so far as to say a few words in sign language. That got a rise out of the crowd and the drummer hit a roll. I doubt anybody noticed, but Jasmine signed back some obscure remark about silence being golden. I thought her last sign looked sort of queer; like she was flinging "the bird" at The Wicked Witch of the West. When the band kicked back in, I figured a run to the Men's Room would break up the boredom. That's when things got interesting. There's something about the average Men's Room that brings out the worst in people. At least, that's what I think. Maybe it's the morbid fluorescent lights. Studies show that lighting is important. Try taking a first date home and see how hot they are to fornicate under a fluorescent light. If it turns out that they are, you might want to introduce them to a good psychiatrist. Or maybe it's the smell. What is that stuff they use to sanitize pit stops with, anyway? It must be cheap, because every Men's Room I ever peed in used the same stuff. Few odors could be more recognizable and repulsive at the same time. My other theory is that urinals have a particular negative impact on the brain and cause otherwise normal people to start acting strange. Didn't some famous artist named Marcel hang a urinal on the wall in a museum and they called it art? There you go! NedMudd lives in Birmingham, Alabama. He is a regular contributor to The Zephyr.


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