tiled floor nirvana

Among the perks where I works are the private bathrooms. No uncomfortable hand-washing meetings, pretending you didn't hear your coworker that was in the stall next to you -- just you, a toilet, a sink, and various and sundry dispensers.

In each of our bathrooms, atop each toilet's iron piping, sits a small house where a tiny robot buddha lives. Each buddha's third eye watches over -- is potty trained -- on his porcelain charge, and he flushes your produce to neverland when you finish.

One of the buddhas is very reliable and efficient. He is eager to please, and faithfully hits the swallow button *ding* on signal.

The second has a lazy eye, or a lazy mind, and must be persuaded. His ineptitude often drives me to take splatters into my own hand and drive home the round, black flush button.

The third buddha's tendencies are even more tiresome, though. He is jittery and anxious, and pulls the trigger at whim; my slightest move in or out of view and he yanks the chain.

I always end my trips to the bathroom doing a handstand against the wall to keep my sanity intact. Karma would have it that the one room with a cement section of wall (that my shoes don't mark up or noisily bang against) is the room where the third buddha sits watch. He goes absolutely nuts when I do my handstands, and I've got to be awfully careful to ensure the hallway outside is empty when leaving the room, so as not to incite suspicions of john-cloggage.

Once again, Jeff, you blow me out with the development of a fantastic metaphor. Those auto-flushers always put me on edge.

-- steveg (February 7, 2004 8:18 AM)

Thanks Steve.

Yeah, sometimes on the edge _of your seat_, if you dig my meaning.

-- Jeff Schuler (February 7, 2004 9:17 PM)