Night of a Thousand Smells

Me.

Career choices.

  I've moved-on from one job to the next (in the same company) a few months ago.  My new job is much nicer at the same pay and as an added benefit, significantly less stressful as a marked lesser amount of people's have the potential to die on a day-to-day basis, directly or indirectly.  Such is the nature of Space Operations.  An average person would be surprised how little space operators get paid compared to, say, a Burger King manager being quite comparable.  




  I once was directly involved with the survival of a half-dozen astronauts on an ISS mission on the STS from being smashed by some French rocket-body debris to which I calculated the trajectory being within 5km and had them maneuver.  I got a little medal (the littlest possible) for that one and the squadron got a lot of awards and a plaque signed by all 6 which hangs up neatly at Vandenberg AFB somewhere, though at the time it was at Cheyenne Mountain AFS when I worked there, the squadron since moved.  None of the astronauts called me up and asked me if I'd want a burger or an HJ or anything like that though, and my tale of space-excellence sort of goes-off like a crazy coot with war-stories now.  Shrug.  No astronaut ever died on my watch, though I'm left to buy my own burgers, which I'm fine with.  Further jobs I had changed in intensity and danger over the years.

A nice pair of burgers!

 

Thanks, Mike!

  No astronauts are endangered or saved by my efforts these days and my mind is more at-ease and I can ponder the surroundings more interestedly.  I'm in a new building now, an older building; one that I actually started my Space Career at.  It's had little renovation since 1993 except for a carpet refresh, some of the carpets and tiles are still the same as when the building was erected even earlier than that.  Stairwells, paint.. all the same for the most part; even the bathrooms.

Bathroom door..

Women's bathroom.

  Ah, the bathrooms.  I'm on the second floor, the one with the most traffic.  Over 1000 people work on this floor and it has 2 bathroom areas.  I'm not certain what lies inside the female ones adjacent to the male bathrooms, but having seen the inside of them before, probably fake plants (for some reason).  Ah, but the men's rooms.  Ah yes.  Oh Lord-y yes.

Hodor..  HODOR!

  So, of the 1000 that work on this floor, 980 are men, give-or-take.  Most work on the northern side of the building, the southern side is about 1000 feet away and is little populated.  Because of this, most use the northern men's room out of convenience.  I'd say about 90% of the people are using the northern men's room because it's 20 steps away versus 1000 steps away.  Let's describe the layout.

  The north men's room on this floor consists of 3 stalls and one handicap stall, which I often describe as the Presidential Suite due to the added space, though there is no truly handicapped person with a wheelchair on this floor, it's there just-in-case for various laws and reasons.  So, 4 stalls.  There's also 4 urinals, one of which is the shorter-height one.  There's also 5 sinks to make a mess with and a splash-guarded mirror over these.  Pretty standard stuff.  These are not hands-free sinks.  The leftmost one only offers cold water and is at half-pressure but is used the most, again due to closeness of the exit door which has a large trash bin with no top, which I suspect was eaten or taken as a roof for a refrigerator-box home Oscar the Grouch may have stolen.  Near that is a paper-towel dispenser that self-refreshes mechanically once the towel is pulled, another rolls out hopefully, though not electronically.  More often than not, the towel is far too weak to survive a tug and comes off in chunks and the next towel often does not dispense.  Solution to this is to use a bowling-ball-holes-type turn-mechanism on the side, always wet and greasy.

Another towel dispenser teases near the Presidential Suite.  It too is slimy and requires several turns by placing your fingers into the swamp-holes filled with AIDS-puss, that is, IF you want a towel.  Pants are always a cleaner option here, and I'll explain why..

You choose!  You can decide!

 

The sinks have a standard Coralite counter-top and are placed evenly across with empty soap dispensers oozing smear-goo for you to marvel at.  The counter-top is always wet and swampy as is the mirrors splattered with wetness.  You can imagine the combination of water and what was on the hands of the men combined onto the counter-tops in a disease-rich carnival.  You can hear the complaint-sighs of men, wet-handed, fuddling with the valves to get water to come out and wash with barely scum-soap to find they cannot dry their hands because the towel dispenser insults them mockingly with no towel lest they jam fingers into Yoda's butthole to turn the mechanism, and there's pause and some fuss.  Most decline the invitation, others manipulate the system in disgrace, fingering the two-holed doom-slots.  Not everyone gets a Jackpot of a towel, some get nothing but dirtier fingers.  Might as well just go eat AIDS now.

This girl's counter-top is cleaner than where I work at.

Let's talk about the urinals.  There's about 2 inches of water at any point on the floor around them.  It's a splashy affair.  Water is everywhere, or at least what seems to be water, though the percentage of splashed urine has to be much higher than water-content.  Reason being, almost 1000 men are using these 4 urinals constantly like at a rock concert, splashing away with varied levels of cleanliness based on culture and custom, force and spray.  It's a mess, and they're close together, and it's wet.  It's a urine bog, and careful walking is required to not have the combination soak into your shoes.  Wet and drippy and urine-y.  There's a drain on the floor but it gave up long ago.  It's surrendered and can't keep-up.  Lines form and pee is everywhere like a Urine Festival.  Splash-away, boys!  It's urine-time!  It's rumored some just pee in the corner or don't even face the urinals themselves.  

YOU can't FIND me!

  One of the urinals is on pure-stuck mode where it just doesn't even try to self-flush after every use because it's so desperate to get clean and flushes constantly.  This act of desperation, this act of trying to keep-up from the assault just makes matters worse and water flows onto the floor mixed with fish-eyed, cold, lifeless souled men peeing into it, around it, about it.  Uncaring.  Peeing.  

Non-stop.  This urinal's solution is to just keep flushing until the pain goes away, but it never does.  Lines of heavy-bladdered men continue the onslaught and dump urine endlessly like some pee-hell forever.  Some pee around, on, or near it.  Just keeps coming.  Can't keep up.  Overspills the flushing and more comes, and more, and more.  God help those urinals.  Pee comes from all angles like a Japanese tsunami of urination.  The electronic self-flush mechanism is on overload and smoke tendrils curl upwards trying to keep up for hours and hours of nonstop pee, but never can. 

Flush..flush..flushflush..flushflushflushFLUSHFLUSH!  Impossible!  Pee overflows and the floor is punished.  Walls are punished.  Urinals wonder what hate-crimes they've performed in their past-lives to endure this hell-on-Earth of pee-doom.  Flush.. flush-flush!  Can't.. keep up.. can't .. oh, God..!

Yes, it's gross.

Hey, man?!  I gotta take a PEE-PEEEEEE!

The stalls.  Oh, God.. the stalls.  This is the worst.  Always filled.  Always lines.  Men line-up with blank eyes, cold and lifeless, like a doll's eyes, like a shark's eyes.  Empty eyes with one intent.  To take a violent and massive shat.  There's no relief as stalls are approached with cruel intent, to destroy the toilet outright.  Two of the four are broken-seated, worn and devastated, the seats are at angles, the bumper-guard worn down from rape-like abuse.  

Each stall is approached like a Haitian whore the pimp already got money for.  Unrelentless man-asses crush the seats and a torrent of crap is force-fed into their mouths like a bucket of apples is dumped into a swimming pool.  Noise is explosive and concerning.  Some toilets are topped-off.  The toilets don't have the luxury of self-flushing so aren't awarded that decency and the urinals realize that they may be actually lucky in comparison.  This is the darkest place, the true place.  Crap is on the walls,  Back-splatter is on the flusher, the back wall, the side walls.  Water splashes up onto the ceiling as brownie-batter is cement-trucked into the small seat opening.  The men force-out unhealthy and dangerous amounts at extreme pressure.  Prolapsed intestine shovel  cubic meters of awful like a coal-miner on cocaine getting Old Bettsie the locomotive to Mississippi before the Confederacy can open-fire.  

  It's a violent but matter-of-fact affair.  Oh God.  The violence of feet pressed firmly against the door, hands holding the walls, bracing for impact.  KER-SPLASH! BOOOM!  Metric tons of ass-product bombard and stank-up the room like a backing-up sewer-system in India during the monsoon-season.  Rolls are ripped off the walls and jammed up cracks and flung into the mouths of the toilets like a whore's two-dollar tip before pants are yanked back up and kick-flushed down, the toilet struggling to devour the crime but can't. 

As it tries, another fish-eyed, cold and intent monster enters, slams the door shut as it bangs off the hinges.  Destruction awaits without a moment's rest, the toilet not even done flushing and refilling the water, more bad-breakfast is ass'ed and shoved into its face-mouth hard and brutal.  So relentless is the shitting nonstop and the stink is omnipresent like some Louisiana whorehouse at midnight in August pretending it's not that bad but the swamp-gas tear-eyes and mongrel-dogs who normally and delight on cat-shit gag.  

The soul of the toilet has manifested as a human and given up this world to go to the next.

  Even the Devil would turn away from the vulgar scene.  Men continue with the expectation of a "good time" saying to themselves, "You know the drill." as there's no foreplay, just pants being torn down and asses smashed freefall-dropped down onto broken seats, the force of the sitting bruises bottoms and helps with the evacuation of chocolate nuclear canon-fire.  God help the stalls.  

What?  It's just a chocolate cake.

This monkey is muddy.

They are forsaken.  Doors slam, rebound, re-slammed, locked.  There's kicking and moaning of pain and gnashing of teeth.  Rooster-tails of diarrhea color the walls like modern-art.  Grunts, moans of death and torture.  Many don't flush, not to be bothered by the prostitution act completion.  Sometimes no "tip" of wadded toilet-paper is offered, and that concerns me the most.  Who wouldn't wipe?  Just get up and leave?  Was her service so poor she doesn't deserve a wipe and flush?  So careless and cruel.  It often sounds like the Hulk is on full-rampage-mode, and this goes on all day.

God help us all.  God help us.

Gotta go REAL bad!

Out.

























Okay, here's your chippy...

and one for the ladies...

Wuh?  You like chocolate?

hahahhaha!  OUT!