This blog originated from a stand-up bit I came up with. No, I don’t do standup. But a month ago, my brother asked if I ever thought of writing stand-up comedy. I told him, I’m not that funny. He said, I know. But sometimes your blogs are. I said, That’s true. Sprinkled throughout my end-of-the-world speculation and political diatribes, I do make a funny blog every now and then. So I decided to come up with something funny. Here’s a stand-up bit converted to blog that is, yes, appropriate for most audiences.
I tend to only remember the most embarrassing moments in my life. I rarely remember anything good. This contributes to my life’s misery.
I’ll offer but one example: Last year, I was at a funeral for a good friend of the family. You’d think I would look back and remember some of the kind words people said – maybe even think back to a good memory I had when this friend of ours was still alive…. She was a saintly woman who fed poor people after all. But no. All I ever think about is that church’s stinking bathroom.
I had to go. Nothing funny about that. But this church was small and there were only three one-room bathrooms: a men’s, a women’s, and a disabled. It wasn’t disabled. It was for people with disabilities. That’s the appropriate way to say these things – I'm very politically correct.
The men’s bathroom happened to be busy and I really had to go, so I thought I’d use the bathroom for people with disabilities – you know, the extra big one with the handrails everywhere. I peeked in and it looked quite luxurious. I thought to myself, You deserve this. You just gave a speech at a funeral – almost got through it without bawling. Go ahead, treat yourself. Besides, how many disabled people could there possibly be at this small funeral? I mean, one to two max out of a hundred people? I was playing the percentages.
So I go in, lock the door, and start walking to the toilet – this bathroom is huge, so it takes a while to get to it. But then I stop. I notice quite early on I’m not the first person to use the bathroom for people with disabilities. There’s at least one person with some kind of disability at the funeral… Nothing against people with disabilities. I understand most people with disabilities know how to use the bathroom properly. But this person had a disability. They needed assistance. And they obviously didn’t get it.
Normally, being in a church setting, I might try to clean up a small mess and then do my business, but this.... this would have taken equipment – surgical equipment, with a hazmat suit preferably. I decided then and there I could hold it until I got home. But after seeing what you normally see in an outhouse – you know, when you peek down that hole beneath you – I needed to wash my hands. It was like I was made impure simply by looking at it. So I wash my hands thoroughly with lots of soap – say the birthday song a couple times – dry my hands, then open the door.
That’s where this story gets interesting. Standing two feet in front of me by the door, in crutches, is a man... clearly a man with a disability. Worse yet, I know him. Even worse, he knows me. After all, I just gave a speech at the funeral honouring our friend... that woman…. that woman who loved everyone and fed poor people – all of that is irrelevant now. All I care about is avoiding this man’s penetrating stare.
Looking back now, I realize I should have probably said something. There were many things I could have said. I could have cracked a joke to lighten the mood before his mood went down the, well, toilet... but, like I said, I'm not that funny. Maybe I could have made something up like, “This bathroom is out of order [not totally untrue], please use the other one.” That wouldn’t have been too bad. He would have been suspicious, but if I closed the door and stood there, he might have felt like he had to force himself into the cramped men’s bathroom. Finally, I could have been completely honest and said, “I don't know what happened in there, but it’s a disaster. I didn't do it, I swear. Please, get out while you can!”
Maybe that would have aroused his suspicion even more, I don’t know. But it would have been an attempt. It would have been better than what I did do: I said “Hey,” under my breath, hanging my head low as I walked past him. That’s right, I acted like I was shoplifting some booze from a liquor store. I might as well have held the door open for him and said, “Come on in! Look what I did!”
At that point I had no choice. I had to get out of that church before he got to the end of the bathroom which probably gave me a minute or two. I didn’t say good-bye to anyone, made a beeline for my car and drove home, hoping I would never see this man again.
I’m serious about that – about never seeing him again. I shouldn’t say this, but I was so embarrassed, I would rather one of us die rather than meet up again. Hey, it’s not like we were good friends! We can meet in heaven, that’s fine. But not on this fallen earth.
This might sound cruel (don’t judge me), but he does have a good 25 years on me, so if I play the percentages right, the next time I see him might just be at his funeral.
I’ll make sure not to use the bathroom.
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