Les Bonnes Choses

Weird things happen in public washrooms. Though I have never witnessed any of the really weird things that might go on, I have nonetheless recently been party to some odd McDonald's washroom events along Michigan's highways.

First off, I feel sufficiently self-conscious about this to want to note upfront that I am not a particular fan of the McDonalds franchise. I do, however, appreciate that these restaurants are both ubiquitous (frequently located near gas stations near highway exits) and, importantly, well-maintained. I don't think anyone wants to face the dilemma of either entering a washroom where it looks like someone exploded or risk exploding oneself.

So that explains how I found myself in McDonald's washrooms twice in recent weeks. As for what transpired:

The first story to relate will require me to set the scene. My modesty will require that you not imagine the scene too vividly. Suffice it to say, the scenario begins with me alone in the men's room using the facilities en plein air. The door opened, and a boy of about ten years entered the washroom. He saw me, and walked up beside me and said, "you're probably wondering how my shirt got ripped..."

His guess about what I was wondering at that moment couldn't possibly have been farther off the mark.

The second event occurred yesterday in Capac, MI., which is one of the last gas stations along the highway before you get to the Bluewater Bridge. The McDonald's washroom there is properly part of the gas station, and thus doesn't have that swanky McDonald's decor, nor is it particularly large. But it is at least decently well-maintained, so it has that going for it at least. Because of it's small size (Max. Occupancy: 2), one is likely to be alone in the washroom. It is thus surprising to hear another voice in the washroom.

Normally, when I hear talking in the washroom coming from a stall, it's a dad with a child.

Now you see where this is going.

There was no child. Instead, I was hearing a telemarketer who canvasses to raise money to "support the troops". How do I know? Because he was carrying out a conversation on his cell phone from a stall in a gas station bathroom. He was quite proud of his debating skills.

"...so I asked, do you support our troops? ... uh huh. Yeah, so then I said, 'Well, do you pay taxes? Did you know that your taxes go to pay for our troops?'"

It was like peeing into the twilight zone.

The part of me that can't abide stupidity wanted to yell over the door that meeting one's legal tax obligation has nothing to do with whether or not one supports a standing military because citizens have no direct say over how their individual tax dollars are allocated. But that part of me was overruled by the part of me that observed nothing can be gained by arguing with a guy placing phone calls from the crapper.

In the end, I felt the best way to voice my objection and perhaps alert the other end of the conversation to the true nature of the phone call was to wash my hands and use the air dryer. Speaking of which, I hope nobody asks that idiot to borrow his phone. That's just gross.