The Rules of the Game

The Rules of the Game

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An Open Letter to The Guy With Brown Shoes Who Totally Pissed Me Off The Other Day.

Dear Guy With Brown Shoes Who Totally Pissed Me Off The Other Day:

Hey putz, you totally pissed me off the other day.

I mean, really pissed me off.

It takes a lot to get me mad. But you, my friend, hit the hot button. 

You absolutely and completely -- with malice and intent -- violated Guy Rule #1:

You messed with my crap. 

And I don't mean "stuff" crap. I mean "poop" crap. 

You screwed with my doody, dude.

You see, there I was at work minding my own business, my hairy, fat ass nestled comfortably against the Black Horseshoe. Or, as I'm sure you so thoughtfully call it, The Crapper. 

Anyway, I was sitting in Stall #5, letting the previous night's compilation of corn, broiled chicken and salad escape to freedom, when you, Mr. Hi-I've-Got-No-Sphincter-Control, walked in, sat your ass down in Stall #4, and let loose with the Spanish Armada.

Dude. Hello? What were you thinking? 

Excuse me, are you new to the species of Man? 

There's a process here, mister. Learn it. Live it. 

Do not, I repeat, do not come into my house on my time unless you know your shit. 

Because you clearly don't know mine.

I don't know what it's like everywhere else, and quite honestly, I don't care. But on the 17th floor, dickhead, we play by the rules. 

If that's too hard for you to comprehend, might I suggest that you never show your rear end in these parts again. Because nobody's got the time or energy to coddle your sorry shit-filled lame ass. 

This ain't no rookie potty, mister. Welcome to The Show.

The sad thing is, you probably don't even have a clue that you did anything wrong.

Which means you're not just stupid. You're stupid with ugly brown shoes.

As a public service to all that could potentially be affected by your moronic behavior, and in the hope that you're willing to learn from your mistake…let the lesson begin.

To start, you violated my mandatory air and space distance requirements by sitting your ass directly in the stall next to me. 


Were you sick the day they told all men that there's a minimum one-stall buffer between patrons? Hello? It ain't brain surgery, Mabel. We have six stalls on the 17th floor. So if I'm in #5, #4 and #6 are off limits because I've got squatter's rights in #5. That still leaves you with the option of #1, #2, or #3.


Believe me, I've used every one of them. They're all fully capable of holding your load. 

If you're gonna use your ass, use your head, man.

The sad thing is, part of me is trying real hard to be sympathetic to you and your butthole. Who knows? Maybe #4 is your favorite stall. Maybe you thought you had diarrhea. Maybe you were just in a hurry to hide from someone in the office.

Not that I've ever done that.

But y'know what? While part of me is trying real hard to be sympathetic, the other part of me wants to hunt your ass down and plug it with a toilet paper roll.

Did you care for one second that somebody was already sitting in the bathroom taking care of business? 

Or were you just thinking, "Hmmmm, I can see there's someone in Stall #5. Let me mosey on over to #4 so I can release the unexpurgated version of last night's dinner. I bet he'll like it!"

I've got two questions for you, ace. 

1. What the hell did you eat last night? 

2. What the hell did you eat last night?

That was brutal. If it smelled that bad coming out, I can't even imagine what it was like going in.

Two words, my friend: more fiber.

Oh, and as an added bonus, you also violated Guy Rule #1, Subsection 4, Part A, Paragraph 3:

The Mandatory Bathroom Noise Control Requirements.

You way crossed that line.

For a second, I thought Juan Gonzalez had just hit a three-run homer over at the Jake. Then I realized the fireworks were coming directly out of your asshole. Which was in the stall next to me. With your ugly brown freaking shoes staring me in the face.

Show a little courtesy, fella. I understand that you can't control the volume of your ass. And every crap is different. Blah. Blah. Blah. But, just to be safe, you should've gone to the simultaneous flush and release to at least lessen the magnitude of your anal symphony.

Is any of this making any sense to you? 

Yeah, I didn't think so.

Dude, the whole thing was so wrong. You were so wrong.

Now I know that you didn't think about me for one second, because you're a selfish S.O.B. But let me tell you what I was going through from the moment you walked in.

Like you care. 

As soon as I heard the bathroom door open, I clammed up, thank you very little. Granted, that's not your fault; that's just me. But the fact of the matter is, as soon as I know there's anyone else in the bathroom, I immediately lose the will to release any additional data. 

If you know what I mean.

Typically however, if someone walks in just to urinate, that's something I can deal with. That's because peeing never takes too long, and over the years, I've actually trained my body and mind to control my bowels so that at a moment's notice, I can stop them from performing their specified duty. And then instantly bring them back from the nether regions from where I sent them.

If you know what I mean.

Yes, I am one with my hole. 

I am Cain, the Kung Fu of Crap.

Truth be told, the act of peeing takes the average guy 32 seconds, from the time the door opens to the unzipping, the peeing, the zipping, the washing, the drying, and out the door. 

24 seconds if they bypass the wash. 

14 seconds if they bypass the wash and they're riding bareback.

Not that I've ever timed it.

Poop, however, is a whole different ballgame. There are no time restrictions. No constraints. No game clock. Could be a minute. Could be twenty. Newspaper? SI? Glamour? There's just no way of knowing. Which makes it virtually impossible to gauge how much energy and effort is necessary to go through the emotional and physical process needed to finish the project. 

If you know what I mean.

So, butt monkey, as soon as I heard you sit in that stall, I knew that the dead meat in my ass was dead meat. And it was still in my ass.


In hindsight, the worst part of this whole thing is not that you deprived me of my privacy and my pleasure.

The worst part is that I have to tell you any of this to begin with. 

Are you not a man?

Instead of letting your ass control your life, you ass, maybe you need to think before you crap.

Whoever you are, wherever you are right now, I'm telling you, don't ever do what you did again. Ever.

Because if I'm ever in #5 again and I see your shoes in #4, I swear to God, I'll climb into your stall and kick your bare ass.

On second thought, that sounds kinda gay. Forget it.

But trust me. I'll do something. And it'll be mean.

Oh, and one more thing before I go: You suck. 

And your brown shoes were uglier than the ugly I said they were before when I said they were ugly.

Remind me to sell tickets to your next colonoscopy.

Have a nice day.

Yours truly,

The guy you totally pissed off the other day.

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