My Pants And Other Matters Of National Security

I have to admit that lately my office is really getting on my nerves. I mean, first there was the issue with the chairs and next they install super bright florescent bulbs. Seriously, I feel like I should just bring some tanning butter and a towel for my lunch breaks. In two weeks I’m going to look like George Hamilton.

Secretly, I suspect that the florescent lighting might just be another ploy to snuff out any hopes of inter-office romances. Do you have any idea what it’s like living under those bulbs? Every blemish my skin has suffered through since puberty have all returned at once. I feel like I’m walking around through a perpetual propecia commercial…only there’s no Jessica Simpson walking around whoring the place up. Why the fuck would you hire Jessica Simpson as a spokesperson for anything? Seriously, she is to the English language what Shatner is to music.

So I’m stuck in the office under brutal lighting. As if I don’t already look like I’m 15 years old, the lights make it appear that I’m suffering a major acne attack. Meaning that I’m a bad hair-cut and a zeppelin t-shirt away from looking like I’m awaiting a ride from my mom to a Battlestar Galactica convention. My only refuge from the child services teams that try to haul me down to an adoption agency is the restroom. But unfortunately, there’s a problem on that front, too.

Now, I guess that I understand the need for security in this day and age. You can never be too careful. So I appreciate the impulse to put locks on the bathroom doors. But I don’t pretend to understand why the fuck you would bother on the men’s room.

I’ve been in a lot of skeevy bathrooms in my life…but I’ve never had someone burst in on me to try to rape or mug me mid-stream. Mostly because I think the overpowering stench of urine isn’t something that anyone views as an aphrodisiac.

Look, I know for a fact that if the ladies restroom had a lock and the guy’s didn’t, I’d be right here making sarcastic comments about how I need security because of all the ladies that try to force me to have sex with them late at night in the office. But in my day to day life, I’d appreciate the hassle-free environment. Because here’s the thing: the locks are five digit codes. It’s like my waste functions have suddenly become a matter of national security.

I can’t even remember my own age. What are the odds that I’m going to be able to recall the pin number when I’m ten seconds away from wetting myself? For Christ’s sake, I’m trying to pee, not launch a warhead from a nuclear submarine. What’s next? Am I going to have to simultaneously turn two sets of keys each time I need toilet paper? Maybe we should require retinal scans each time you want to flush.

Perhaps I just find it ironic that the bathrooms are locked while the parking garage opens right to the street and provides little if any lighting. Although I guess it’s comforting to know that if I am raped, it won’t be amidst the overpowering stench of urine from the men’s room, it’ll be in the overpowering stench of urine in the garage. Boy, is that a weight off my mind.

See you all tomorrow. I’m off to go buy pepper spray.