In honour of the weird cult following that grew up around this post about a rather unfortunate (if amusing) even that occured to me in a high school washroom, I hereby regale you with another tale involving the bloody odd things that happen to me in washrooms.
I am pleased to present…
Urine, Blood, and Wanton Violence
The pointless preamble, but necessary explanation at how the following situation could actually occur.
I am not a small person. I stand at a perfectly normal and average height of 6 foot 5 inches, and am by no scale “light” or “thin”. It is near impossible to confuse me for something that has those two qualities, though I suppose I could strap a flashlight to me head and stoned people might mistake me for a strangely shaped lamp post.
I don’t mean to toot my own horn (as I probably suck, haven’t played the trombone in over a year now), but it is important to know that I often, despite my best efforts, come off as damn intimidating to strangers. I have attempted to remedy this by wearing silly hats, walking slowly, and even wearing a Darth Vader “Who’s your daddy?” button.
I was enrolled in a “shop” class, some strange place where manly men eviscerate nature into shapes like firewood and abstract art. (“It’s a TV stand, I swear!” Sure…)
“Shop” can’t be taught just anywhere, even if welding implements are absent; a proper shop needs to have a ridiculously high ceiling and plenty of room for an inexplicable plethora of machines with whirring metal blades of death.
So, the “shop” death camp found itself isolated from the rest of the school, by merit of the sheer amount of room it needed. Thus, the washroom convenient to the “shop” class went largely ignored by remainder of the school.
One bright and cheerful day, I was in shop class, and was stricken with the need to empty my urine bag. Having thusly communicated my urgent need to the “teacher”, I sallied forth to the lonely (and therefore, always clean) washroom.
Imagine my surprise when, upon turning the doorknob, my hand slipped off with no effect, similar to attempting to hug a fat man coated in vegetable oil.
Imagine my subsequent horror when my hand was revealed to now be coated in blood.
Being the washroom nearest the “shop” class, I suppose it was only natural that young, foolish morons who had somehow ripped a piece of themselves apart/off would seek sanctuary here.
Nonetheless, I was faced with the decision to try the bloody knob again, or seek a different washroom.
In hindsight, I should have gone with the former.
Earlier that day, there was somebody (henceforth referred to as “the idiot”) who was going around the school and essentially bugging the hell out of every male over six feet tall. It was only a matter of time before someone taught this guy a lesson. (Hah, education puns. I’m so classy).
At roughly the exact same time I was experiencing the bloody bathroom knob, the idiot was getting beaten to a bloody pulp by a large person who just so happened to match my exact description. Hair colour, hair length, clothing (then again, just how rare is jeans and a grey t-shirt?), even friggin’ eye colour.
The next closest washroom to the “shop” was in a far busier section of the school, conveniently positioned to serve the english, science, and math departments.
Meaning that, when arriving at this non-bloody washroom, there were four other people in there in various stages of waste disposal. And here I waltz in with my hand soaked in blood.
Somebody asked me “Damn, dude, what happened? You OK?”
It is about now I should describe a personality quirk of mine. I very rarely think about arbitrary conversation, as it seems largely irrelevant what I say or what others say. What possible ramifications could there be?
So I respond: “Oh, don’t worry, it’s not my blood.”
I proceed to wash off this blood, take a piss, and leave.
And completely forget to elaborate on what I just said.
What possible conclusion could be reached from this?
It took two years to convince the rumor mill that I was not a douche bag who attacked people who annoyed me.