I like to think I'm a pretty 'upbeat' sort of guy at work. Certainly, there are annoyances at my office -- not to mention complications, technical difficulties, seemingly endless meetings, sudden emergencies, unexpected problems, and a urinal handle that won't flush unless you jiggle it just right -- but I try not to let it get to me. I try to be positive. Cheerful. And mostly, in denial of the shit-tsunami that's usually surging it's way down the hall towards me.

Listening to music in the car on the way to work helps. If I'm in a determined sort of mood, I might play some driving techno stuff -- Chemical Brothers, maybe, or the Propellerheads. If I need a pick-me-up, then maybe it's edgy rock, like Smashing Pumpkins or Foo Fighters. And if I'm feeling a little down or tired, I'll pop in something jangly I can sing along with -- Blind Melon is good for that; so is Dave Matthews. And, as I was crooning along with today, so are the Refreshments.

(Yes, I was singing in my car. Yes, often at the top of my lungs. And yes, I'm a sappy damned douchebag. But that's not the point this time. Today, we're laughing at me for another dumbass thing. Do try and keep up.)

So, I made it to work. The last song I was howling along to was 'Mexico', off the Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy CD. Cool tunes, catchy hooks, nearly-naked cartoon chick on the cover. Good times.

So the lyrics were still running through my head when I made it into the building, and to my first meeting of the day.

At this point, I should probably mention that I'm one of those people who'll suddenly -- though in my case fairly quietly, due to my off-key warble -- break into song, with no obvious provocation. I'm pretty sure I picked it up from my dad -- he's got this weird, and apparently contagious, habit of singing about what he's doing, or what someone just said to him. I don't know where the hell he got it from, but he's passed the insanity down to me, and now I'm stuck with it. So I sometimes have 'conversations' like this:

Wife: 'Honey, can you take out the trash?'

Me: 'Takin' out the trrrrrash.... Ooh, I'm a-takin' out the trash... Yes, it's -- Gar-bage Day! Ooh, baby, Gar-bage Day! Hey hey!'

Wife: 'You're an idiot, you know that?'

And then, while I'm carrying the garbage out, she locks me out of the house. Yes, the lady's quite the kidder. Ha mo-fucking ha.

Anyway, there's that. There's also the whole 'humming a song in my head and then realizing that I'm actually singing it, out loud, with other humans within hearing distance' thing, which -- believe it or not -- can be even worse.

Which gets us back to this morning. Let's recap -- Mexico running through my head. Me in a good mood. And an hour-long meeting with bosses and co-workers and such just about to get under way. I've just skipped into the conference room and found a seat, while people pile in around me. I'm singing to myself, in my head, until I get to the bit just before the chorus, when I absentmindedly let a couple of bars slip out. In case you're not familiar with the song in question (and here are the lyrics [link], in case you want to play along at home), here's what the folks in my immediate vicinity heard:

'*hum* *hum* *hum-a-hum-a-hum*...

Got off in the wrong direction --
Found a hooker and lost my erection,
So I had to lie, in the letter...'

I think it was right around 'I had to lie' that I noticed the people staring at me. It took a couple of more words in the verse to put two and two together -- I'd just launched into song at the worst possible point in this little ditty, and got flat busted by at least two -- no, wait, that girl over there's not looking, but her face is really red, so at least three -- oops, hold on, the guy across the table is deliberately avoiding my eyes... eh, but most people in the office end up doing that, so maybe it's just coincidence -- busted by at least three people who just heard me spontaneously spout something about a 'hooker' and 'lost my erection' in the lull before the start of the weekly group meeting. Out-fucking-standing. Oh, the wonders this will do for my rep with these people. Goody to the max.

So, that was how my morning started today. I think I recovered pretty well -- I looked around, wide-eyed, like a shaved gerbil at a K-Y convention, and then muttered, 'Aw, shit!' and pretended to study the meeting agenda in front of me. Smooth, yes? Cool like the other side of the pillow. That's right.

And now, I'm just waiting for the bullshit to start. 'Hey, Charlie, picked up any hookers lately?' Or, 'Yo, Erection Boy -- how's it hanging?' And probably, 'You know, dude, it's okay -- there are pills for people like you.'

*sigh*

The worst part is, this snarky crap will only go on until I pull the next cluetarded brainfart move, and catch hell for that, instead. And the circle of life goes on.

Meanwhile, I'm gonna start listening to NPR in the damned car. Sure, it's about as exciting as giving a teamster a Brazilian backwax... but at least there are no lyrics to lodge themselves in my brain and get me in trouble later. I can pretty well guarantee you that the words 'hooker' and 'erection' have never been uttered together in the same sentence on public radio before. Hell, maybe not even separately. Those guys have no damned fun at all. Perfect for those morning meetings. I'm sold.

You know what sucks? Red chalk. Allow me to explain.

Tonight, I worked late at the office. I had an opportunity, though, to take a little 'breather'. A buddy and I met at a pool hall/bar near my office, for a couple of beers and a friendly match of eight-ball. A nice break, amid the midnight oil I was burning.

Now, those of you familiar with the barroom style of billiards will know that there are, at most, two types of chalk available. In the poolier places -- yes, I just made up that word, let it frigging go, would you? -- you'll see a block of 'hand chalk'. This chalk is white, usually comes in a sort of gutted pineapple shape, and is meant to keep the cue stick from dragging along your thumb or finger skin. It's generally pretty unobtrusive, though it can be a bit embarrassing if you happen to absent-mindedly wipe your nose while 'wearing' the chalk. At best, you'll end up with that milkstachy look; at worse, you'll seem crack-fiendish. Neither of which is going to help you when you're trying to impress a potential mate with your 'two-rail three-ball no-look billy baroo' combo shot. Just for future reference, there, Romeo.

The other kind of chalk, of course, is 'cue chalk'. This comes in little paper-wrapped cubes on the table, and goes on the end of your cue stick. It's important stuff, because it keeps the cue tip soft and true, improving your accuracy. You wouldn't want to try the old 'billy baroo' without a soft, true tip, now would you? Oh, billy billy billy billy billy.

It's also important to note that cue chalk, while you're busily engaged in your table snookering, has the tendency to end up eeeeeeverywhere. On your hands, on the floor, on your shirt, on your chair, all over your pants... on the ceiling, if you're not careful. You might even want to wear a hairnet when you play, because chances are, the chalk will end up there, too. Also? A diaphragm, to be safe. I'm just saying: eeeeverywhere.

Now, traditionally speaking, this 'cue chalk' is blue. Which is not a poor choice for cue chalk color. Imagine you're out at ye olde poole halle -- taking a break from work on a Monday evening, maybe -- and you play a few games of billiards. In the process, you end up covered in blue chalk. You look like Pigpen in a blueberry patch; you're positively filthy with the stuff.

You know what? Fine. First of all, if you're anything like me, you're wearing jeans, anyway. They're already blue -- they can't get much bluer. If you get chalk on your hands, for instance, then maybe hit the head, and get blueness smeared around your zipper area, it's probably not even noticable. And if it is -- so what? Unless you're the type of guy known to solicit oral sex from smurfs, what's the big deal? Clearly, it's just chalk.

Ah. But now, imagine the chalk is red. And just suppose, theoretically, that you've just arrived home to your sweetie after a long day of work and a couple of games of pool. With a red crotch. Maybe even some red around the collar, or the neck, if you happened to reach up there. Suddenly, those smurf hummers are the least of your worries. You look like you've either spent the evening crotch-slapping Tammy Faye Bakker, or just finished up a sixty-nine session with a Ronald McDonald impersonator.

('Impersonator', because we know the real Ronald would never engage in such shenanigans.

Clearly, it's Grimace and the Hamburgler who are bumping purple uglies. Ron and his big fat clown shoes just look the other way. McPansy.)

At any rate -- red chalk bad, is what I'm trying to say. Why the chalk can't stay blue -- or be green, or yellow, or McMuffin golden brown -- is beyond me. Red just seems the most unfortunate, easily misconstrued choice of hue possible. If it doesn't look like 'lipstick', it's 'blood'. If not 'blood', then it's 'ketchup'. And if not 'ketchup', then 'chili powder'. And if there are four things you should not be wearing on your crotch when you come home and greet your wife, then those four are them.

(Okay, fine. I suppose you could come up with four worse things to be wearing on your crotch. Like, oh, say, 'Vaseline', 'a tiara', 'Cool Whip', and 'a Hilton sister', for instance.

But this is about chalk, dammit. Don't be quibbling over crotch fouls with me.)

Actually, the easiest way to get around the red chalk problem is to do what I do -- just rub it all over your whole body. As long as you've got chalk everywhere -- on your back, on your legs, on your elbows, hands, and nose -- then nobody's really going to notice whether you've accidentally wiped some on a 'danger zone' like your crotch. From a distance, you may look like a raging axe murderer, sure -- but if you're like me, then is that really so much of a change? And just think how much faster the attendant will get your car out of the garage when you're ready to go home.

Hey. Maybe this 'red chalk' thing isn't so bad, after all.

Some guys think it's embarrassing to walk into a store and buy 'feminine products' for their wife or girlfriend.

Nonsense.

Just the act of purchasing tampons or maxipads tells the world that you have a wife or girlfriend. Sure, she obviously wears the pants in the relationship, since it's you trekking out to track down her toiletries. But you've got someone, and that's what counts. You might even be getting lucky with her soon.

But not that soon. That's the Megapack of Tampax 'Wingmasters' on the counter there, bud. You'll be cooling those jets for a few days more.

Other guys are shy about stopping by a drugstore to buy condoms.

Hogwash.

Look, I could understand it, if you're buying 'LifeStyles Minis' or 'Junior Trojans'. But even at that, who's going to see you buying them? The store manager? The checkout lady with the lazy eye? The drunk old guy by the magazine rack pretending he's not sneaking a look at the Juggs on the top shelf? So what?

Screw those people. If you're buying rubbers, you're having a way better night than any of those losers. Big ones, small ones, papaya-flavored purple ones -- it doesn't matter in the least. Let the cashier jockey price check you, over the loudspeakers if he wants. That's the sweet tinny sound of jealousy, my friend.

I know of other guys that say buying porno mags in a store is the most embarrassing.

Well... maybe.

Personally, I have no idea. I've never bought a pornographic publication from a drugstore or newsstand. Honestly, in this day and age, why the hell would you?

The internet is right there, and it's just brimming with porn of every shape, size, and species. Why buy the proverbial cow, when you can see three hookers and an albino midget perform unspeakable acts on a real cow any hour of the day or night? It just doesn't make sense. It may keep me from eating beef for the next few months, certainly, but it doesn't make any sense.

Then there are those guys who blush and giggle when they buy their personal grooming products.

Ninnies.

Hey, we all have our problems. Some of those problems relate to various grooming issues, and that's unfortunate. But if you're standing there in the store, with your dandruff shampoo in one hand, a nose hair trimmer in the other, and a cart full of Beano and Dr. Scholls, at least that lets people know you're doing something about it.

Honestly, wouldn't it be more embarrassing to be walking around shedding flakes and floating air biscuits, with nostrils like porcupines and stinky cheese feet? If I see someone buying that stuff, I give them a nod and feel good that they're trying to better themselves.

I give them a wide berth in the checkout line, of course -- just in case they only decided today to start bettering themselves. Still. They're fighting the good fight. What's not to like?

Personally, I think the most embarrassing item a guy can buy at the store is a frying pan.

Why a frying pan?

Because the frying pan purchase signals to the world that not only does the guy not have someone to help with the cooking and the frying of delicious meats and meat-like substances -- he also has no prospects of any such help in the near future. Otherwise, he'd wait it out, to see how the shared fryware situation shakes out.

If said gentleman is over the age of twenty-two or so, it's even worse. At 'college graduate' age, you could make the case that the fellow has a genuine interest in the culinary arts, and honestly enjoys using his own frying pan. Alone. Probably for SPAM, in the kitchenette of his dingy bachelor pad, over by the dive bars and liquor stores on the sketchy side of town.

(Hey, I said you could make a 'case'. I never said it would be a good case.)

Once a guy reaches twenty-five or so without a frying pan, though, there's only one reasonable explanation as to why -- the man doesn't want a damned frying pan. He'd much prefer to be out buying Kotex pads and bikini tweezers for a lady friend willing to fry things for him, and he's no longer able to afford the local fast food joints that will, for a fee, deliver pre-cooked and re-warmed fried delectables to him. The actual buying of a frying pan for personal use is, for these men, rock solid bottom. It's 'twelve-step program' territory, is what it is.

I should know. When I got married, I owned no less than three frying pans. At least one was a gift, and none were used for anything other than prepping bologna slices for sandwiches. But when you walk into your lonely man-kitchen and see a choice of frying pans on the wall or in the cupboard -- or, more likely, festering in the filthy sink -- you know that your life has somewhere gone terribly, terribly wrong. Such is the curse of the single male frying pan. Fear it!

A while back, I had a job interview. I think it went really well... except for one teensy little thing. Maybe it hurt my chances at the job, and then again, maybe it helped. I'll explain, and then you can tell me, because I can't decide.

So, in this interview, I met with a human resources woman, and then a man, and then another woman. The guy is the leader of the group where the job is, and the last woman is the person currently doing the job.

(And she was a little bitter about the whole deal, I'm afraid.

'Humph. You wore that tie to an interview?'

'You know your resume isn't nearly as good as mine, don't you?'

'You call that ass-kissing? Come on, man, get that tongue working!'

Bitch and moan, bitch and moan. Still, I guess it would be tough to help find your own replacement for anything, really, much less a full-time job. What could be worse than that? Maybe picking out your significant other's next partner. That would suck. I don't think I'd be a little snarky about that myself.

'Penis, shmenis, dude. What're you gonna do with that little thing? It's practically an 'innie'. Next!')

All right, what was I talking about? Oh, the interview. Right.

So, the bits with the ladies actually went okay, all things considered. Which is quite an accomplishment, really. While interacting with the fairer sex, I often manage to get my eyes or my mouth -- and once, rather famously, the big toe on my left foot -- stuck in places where they really shouldn't be. So it's a small miracle that I was able to talk to two women on the same day without getting so much as frowned at, not to mention slapped, kicked, shrieked at, headlocked, frisked, decked, or summarily escorted from the premises. I score that a 'win'.

But the interview with the boss-man was a bit... different. You see, I had the list of interviewers a couple of days before the event. Normally, this is a good chance for me to practice saying strangers' names without stuttering or fumbling like a clueless boob. I spend a few hours each day in front of a mirror, reciting, 'Yes, hello, I'm here to see John Smith.' or 'Hi, Ms. Jones; it's very nice to meet you.', until I can do it without sounding like a leprous schizophrenic.

(No, I don't know how leprosy fits in there, either. I'm pretty sure that it has nothing to do with how you sound or speak or anything like that. Look, it sounded good at the time, and I've really got nothing better to replace it with. So just let it go. They can't all be gems.)

Anyway, that's what usually happens. But not with this guy. See, he's from another country. Which is peachy -- I'm all about folks flitting from nation to nation until they find one they like, or that has good food or hot bods, or a drinking age of nine. Whatever you're into, that's cool with me. That's not the point here.

The point is that this guy -- my prospective new boss -- has a rather unusual name. At least for me. Maybe in his land, his name is like 'John' or 'Mary' over here, and he has a dozen nicknames so people can keep him straight amongst all his namesakes. Maybe. But probably not.

You see, he has a Godzillla name. An evil supergenius name. A cartoon nemesis name. And that name is... Zolton. Yes, Zolton. Zolton, Ruler of the Underworld. Has a nice ring to it, no?

And that's the problem. I had two whole days to chew on this guy's name, and to practice saying it, and to run it past the smartass little men who live in my brain. And by the time I showed up at this interview, ready to respectfully genuflect my way to a job, it was impossible to say, hear, or think of this man's name without adding an imaginary title. In my head, at the least, but far preferably, out loud. I'm sure you can see where this is heading.

So, I managed to make it through the first interview, with the HR lady, without peeing myself or blurting anything out. She almost got me a couple of times, though.

Me: (Just ask me a damned question... ask me a question... don't say his name... ask me a question...)
Her: So.
Me: Yes, ma'am?
Her: It looks like you'll be meeting with Zolton next.
Me: (Zolton! Zolton, Defender of Darkness! Zolton will see you now! Aaaiiieeeeee!!)
Me: Hee hee -- um, I mean, He. He... he's meeting with me next? Good, good. I look forward to that.
Her: Yes, you'll like him. Zolton's very nice.
Me: (Zolton not nice! Zolton drink the blood of those who stand in Zolton's way! All hail, mighty Zolton, Destroyer of Men! Wooooot!)
Me: Ha hah! Uh, that is, 'ha'. Ha... hou... how long has he been at the company?
Her: Who, Zolton?
Me: (Do you mock Zolton, Render of Souls? Zolton will crush thee like an insect! Insolence!)
Me: Mmppht! Mmrrr... Um, mmm-hmm. How long?
Her: Well, several years now. He was one of our first employees, as a matter of fact. Um, are you okay? Can I get you some water or something?
Me: Ah, no thanks. I think liquid in my mouth would actually be a really bad idea right now.
Her: Oh. I...um, see.

I said I 'made it through' the thing, all right? I never claimed that I managed to make a good impression or anything useful like that. One small miracle at a time.

So, anyway, we finished up and it was finally time to meet Zolton in the flesh. Or cape, or scales, or chain mail, or whatever the hell a 'Zolton' would be wearing. I half-expected him to sidle through the door, leering about and twirling a greasy moustache between his fingers.

(Not necessarily his own moustache, mind you; I couldn't decide which would be more evil.)

On the other hand, I wouldn't have been terribly surprised if he'd been nine feet tall and green and wearing animal skins of some kind, with some sort of death-dealing sword at his side. Oh, I'd have wet my pants; don't get me wrong. But I'm not sure that I'd have been 'surprised', per se. Just so we're clear on that point.

Anyway, he was a pretty normal-looking guy. Slacks, a button-down shirt, loafers. Short brown hair, average height, forties-ish. Nothing out of the ordinary, really. Which turned out to be the worst thing of all, because that lulled me into a false sense of control over my asinine reflexes. I actually thought that because he looked normal, my brain would forget all that other crap and settle down to the business of landing me this job.

No such luck.

So, when he introduced himself, I -- with my guard down -- let loose with that teensy weensy embarrassing thing that I mentioned above. It went hauntingly like this:

Him: Hello. Charlie?
Me: Yes, sir, that's right.
Him: Good to meet you. I'm Zolton.
Me: Zolton! MASTER OF THE UNIVERSE! ZOLTON'S CLOSETS ARE FILLED WITH THE TESTICLES OF HIS ENEMIES!!!
Him: ...
Me: It's -- ahem -- nice to meet you, too. Um, sir.

Amazingly, the rest of the interview with him went pretty smoothly. He gave me a very odd look after my little outburst, of course, but we settled down to business rather quickly. I even managed to piece together a few reasonable answers to his questions. Luckily, my brain was in 'recharge' mode after turning me into its temporary Tourette's bitch, and I was left to concentrate on the actual interview. Of course, if he'd chosen to refer to himself in the third person ('Zolton wants to know about your work experience.'), I'm pretty sure I would have been back at the plate, ready to swing for the fences again. Thankfully, it didn't come to that.

In the end, he never mentioned my little faux pas, and I sure as hell wasn't about to bring it up, even to apologize. So who knows what he thought? Perhaps he didn't register it at all -- maybe it was so strange and foreign to him that it passed through his mind without generating any memory whatsoever. Maybe?

Nah. I could never be that lucky.

Maybe he didn't know what I was talking about, so he cut me some slack. Hell, maybe he really thinks I have Tourette Syndrome, which could work in my favor. For one thing, he can't reject me from consideration based on a medical condition.

(Or in this case, behavior bizarre enough to seem to warrant a clinical explanation, even if it's not the case.)

More importantly, if I get the job, I can say anything the hell I want, anywhere, any time, and at anybody I feel like, just so long as I look sheepish and innocent afterwards. Just like the interview, keeping a straight face may be the hardest part of the job.

Of course, it's overwhelmingly likely that he did hear me, has some clue where the hell it came from, and he shit-canned my resume the moment I stepped out the door. It wouldn't be the first time. Still, that seems like a pretty harsh sentence to me. Think about it -- who wouldn't dig being the 'Master of the Universe'? Or even called that by a relative stranger? I mean, there are 'mad props', and then there are 'mad props!', and then there's being called master of the freakin' universe by some toady-wannabe begging for a job. How could you possibly take that the wrong way?

So, maybe -- just maybe -- my brain's little stunt helped me. In a few days, as Zolton ('Conjurer of Unholy Spirits') looks through his stack of resumes, perhaps he'll remember me. I'll be the one who threw out the ultimate compliment, even before we'd sat down to chat. And Zolton ('Prince of Shadows') will see my name, and realize that I'm the one for the job. I'm the one who'll do the work, and do it fast and do it right, and never complain, and still pledge allegiance to His Excellence at the end of the day without reservation or complaint. Not everyone is cut out to serve Zolton ('Lord of the Furies'), you see. But Zolton ('Bringer of Pestilence') knows a true disciple when he sees one, and I am that disciple. The Chosen One. So maybe blurting out one of the many titles held by Zolton ('Punisher of Mortals') will get me that job, after all. Right? Um, right? Yeah?

Oh, I am so screwed.

For the past twenty-four hours or so, I've been expecting a phone call. A very important call, on my cell phone. I won't get into the details of why it was so important, or what the call was about -- only that the call was not to be missed, and that the person calling was not about to leave a return number. This was a make-or-break sort of deal.

And frankly, it had already 'broken' once. I actually expected the call two days ago, and -- with my cell phone in my fricking pocket -- got a message that someone had just left a voice mail. No ring. No buzz. No friendly vibratory notification. Just:

'Oh, hey -- you missed a call. Sometime in the last thirty seconds. For no goddamned discernible reason. Thanks for choosing Sprint.'

Bunch of no-signal-having ass-backward jackholes. If I didn't hate that smarmy 'can you hear me now?' company with a fiery hot passion, I'd have kicked Sprint's no-good ass to the curb by now.

(Maybe I could hook up with that company with the still-caliente-but-largely-washed-up Latina actress spokesmodel. If they can just get her to serve margaritas, wear a frilly lace skirt, and play the canastas topless in one of those ads, I'm sold.)

Frothy fandango fantasies involving Catherine Sellout-Jones aside, my cellular reception sucks, is what I'm saying. And I missed the initial call I was expecting, in spite of my efforts, only to find a message stating that a callback would occur in the next twenty-four hours. The call would not be missed again.

So, I took precautions. I carried my cell phone with me everywhere, along with a few pages of notes I needed to reference during the call. I didn't know exactly when the call would come, and I couldn't risk being unprepared at any moment. I was like a minuteman, ready to spring into conversational action at the drop of a hat.

Early in the day, I realized what was going to happen. It's a simple application of Murphy's Law. The 'easy' version would be:

'If you're ready to take a call for most of the day, then the call will come at the first moment when you're not ready.'

Like I said, I was committed to not letting that happen. That phone and I were joined at the hip for the full twenty-four. I ate with the phone. I slept with the phone. If the missus and I had done any ugly-bumping that day, I'd have strapped the phone to the headboard and kept a finger poised above the 'Talk' button. There would be no 'not ready' moment.

So it was clear the universe would bitchslap me in the next-most aggravating way:

'If you're ready at all times to take a call, then the call will come at the absolute least convenient time imaginable.'

I was ready for this. I kept the phone next to the bed, in case the call came while I was sleeping. That would be an inconvenient time. But not the most inconvenient time, apparently, as no call came while I was sleeping.

Then, I took the phone with me into the shower, because that seemed like an inconvenient time, also. I could imagine the guy phoning me up during a particularly sensitive bit of lathery self-grooming, and stopping mid-sentence to ask, 'Do I hear a loofah in the background?' But the shower was not the most inconvenient time, either, as no call came while I was showering.

Around four pm, I let my guard down just a bit. I started to wonder if a different application of Murphy's Law was in order:

'If you're ready at all times to take a call, no matter how inconvenient, then the call will simply never come.'

So I kept the phone and notes on me like a good little Boy Scout, but I'd mostly given up hope on the call altogether. And all that planning and preparedness was making me a bit logy. So around four thirty, I took a quick trip to my favorite stall in our office bathroom.

Thereby putting myself in the most inconvenient situation possible.

Ring. Ring.

Now, you have to understand -- this is not a private bathroom. There are three other stalls, a handful of urinals, and two sinks. Any conversation one might have within those walls -- especially an important and eagerly-awaited conversation -- is likely to be overheard by a number of other gentlemen in various states of pantslessness. Not exactly the forum I was shooting for.

Ring. Ring.

At the same time, I was in no condition to quickly leap from my seat, gather my trousers, and bound breathlessly to a more suitable location. Personal hygiene and potential underpants unpleasantness aside, I'm simply not that coordinated. At best, I'd manage to answer the phone, throw open the stall door with my pants around my knees, and trip bare-assed and stammering onto the bathroom floor. Just like prom night, all over again.

At worst, I'd lose the phone in the toilet, give myself an accidental swirly, or they'd find me there three days later with a smashed phone, a broken neck, and three rolls of Charmin stuffed in my boxers. And while I'm sure that would make a lovely Law & Order: SVU episode, I'd prefer a death with a little more dignity. Something with strippers and tequila and an industrial floor buffer, preferably.

Ring. Ring.

Of course, even if I were in a position to arise from the 'throne' and make a hasty getaway, it really wasn't an option. I had to answer the phone immediately, and the toilets in our rest rooms come equipped with auto-flushers. Very efficient, very loud, and very powerful auto-flushers. At that very moment, in fact, I was perched on the very same shitter that nearly sucked me in just a few months ago. So unless I could make a case that I was standing at the bottom of Niagara Falls when I answered the phone, getting off the pot was clearly off the table.

Ring. Riiiiiiiiing!

So, I answered the phone. I had my notes with me, just in case, and I sat there and had my important, can't-miss conversation on the crapper. People walked into the bathroom. People walked out of the bathroom. I did my best to ignore them, and soldiered on as professionally and as coolly as a man with his pants around his ankles and an immediate need for six squares of toilet paper and a spritz of Glade could possibly muster. I was quite proud of myself, actually. And later, when the feeling returned to my legs and I could finally walk out of the stall, I did so with my head held high.

Never mind that the intimate details of my conversation may, at this moment, be scrawled in permanent marker on the walls of the other bathroom stalls. Or that there's a significant portion of the left side of my ass that I still can't feel. There was a call I needed to take -- and I took that call. You can only prepare and plan so much, until it's time to face the music.

It just happens that my 'music' always seems to play in the shitter. Murphy's Law is a bitch, yo.