I'm glad to see that Wally finally figured out how to leave comments. He also forwarded me a news story about a mysterious and alarmingly intimate occurance at the local Bloomingdales over the weekend. Turns out some guy ("Patrick Callahan") went to shed a few pounds in the store's john and was found dead the next morning inside. No leads yet, except the "authorities'" two cents that perhaps Pat "fell unconscious". That must've been some case of the shits.
What really hit home with me was that this wasn't any old weekend department store unsolved pooper death; this happened in my very own private oasis.
Everyone knows coffee is a notorious ... evacuation agent. The Chron has ("had", maybe by the time you read this?) a cheap coffee service which is about as unforgiving as throwing some prunes and watermelon into a blender with some coffee rinds. Needless to say, your stomach wants revenge. Problem is, you can't really utilize the Chron's facilities because of the dudes who apparently pee with their eyes closed and their hands behind their backs all over the seats, and because of people like coworker "Fidel" (see: Havana Omelet).
That's when/why I found my palace of a personal study: the handicapped stall in the lower level of Bloomingdales 1/2 block away (aka the new county morgue, apparently). Bloomingdale's has a reputation to uphold and their lavatories demand respect, peace and quiet. Quiet except, of course, for the adult contempo being quietly pumped in through the speakers. The stall is large enough to accommodate two couches. The pristine marble floors' only flaw is the reflection giving a broadcast to the other side of the door. The flush is like a pissed off, yet refined jet engine.
I don't know what I'm going to do, since nobody just dies mysteriously in a crapper and doesn't end up haunting the place. My jewel is tainted, thanks to Pat.
I'm sure the coroner can stop wasting his time though and just look 50 feet down the street to find the cause of death. Peet's: I'm back.
I moved!
10 years ago
does this mean you're finally opening up about poo and it's being introduced into our relationship now?
ReplyDeleteNo one's supposed to know it's me. You've blown my cover! I AM Col. Flag, and you really CAN'T catch the wind!
ReplyDeleteWhile I'm not surprised the SFPD has no suspects in the Bloomies Basement death, has it occurred to no one else that Larry Craig is finally wising up and disposing of witnesses?