Superior Air

Not long ago, I found a $1 bill -- folded together with shit caked in the middle -- in the trash can under my desk. People were intrigued.

I took it around and showed everyone. I analyzed the whole thing in excessive detail. Like, for instance, it wasn't dog shit. It was human shit. How do I know? I just know, because I'm an expert.

If somebody hates me, they did the wrong thing to get under my skin. If somebody thought I might think it's funny, they were right. If somebody just felt the random urge to wipe with a $1 bill and throw it in the first random trash can, they might need some help.

I have a strange obsession with potty humor. I freely admit it.

I've crapped my pants and worn an adult diaper and told everybody I possibly could about it.

My oldest son, when he was about 3, once passed gas and said, "I blew smoke out my poo-poo way." He said it in all seriousness and had no idea how indelibly that phrase would stick with me.

Still, there's something I can't quite figure out.

There's something out of place. Something at my workplace.

When I go to the restroom, I don't like people to know I'm going to take a dump.

Actually, not just people in general, but certain people. And I can't exactly explain who those people are. I might walk in and see someone and say to myself, "Oh, I don't care if he knows I'm about to stock the pond," but, usually, it's just not cool with me.

I won't make a big show of having a newspaper in my hand if someone is passing by in the hall as I walk into the restroom. If I walk in and someone is at the sink, I'll walk out and go to another floor.

If someone is in the accompanying stall, I might also walk out. If I don't, the only way I stay is if I get the stall that has a solid wall on one side. Never just stall walls on either side.

Maybe it has to do with my attitude toward others. If I walk into the restroom and have to hold my breath while I pee at the urinal, and then I see the dude who has tainted the atmosphere I have to breathe, I tend to have a sense of superiority about me.

Along the lines of "Damn, something crawled up in him and DIED!"

I think that's one thing. I don't want people smelling something coming out of me. I like gas for the sound it makes and the relief it brings, not the smell. I never want anyone to smell it.

I also feel so ... defenseless.

My highest-level supervisor could be washing his hands, oblivious and aloof, but I still succumb to the numbing fear that he's going to pass by the stall door and say, "WHEW! Somebody got something that crawled up in them and DIED!"

Even if I make it in with no one spotting me, I still feel like they know who I am in there. What if I cough? You can hear someone cough and know who they are. I realized that in the restroom one time when I heard a guy cough. Forevermore, I see him as someone who has a lot of stink going on inside him.

What about when my sunglasses fall off the top of my head and onto the floor and slide over to the guy next to me? I quickly grab them, saying nothing, because I so don't want someone picking them up, handing them to me and saying, "Here you go, Eric. You dropped these."

It's my fault.

I can be sitting there, quietly, and someone busts into the stall next to me, makes a bunch of heaving sighs, pulls his pants down and explodes.

I can be sitting there, quietly, and someone will answer his cell phone.

I can be sitting there, quietly, and someone will pull off one piece of toilet paper and then flush and leave.

And each time, I sit there, smugly, shaking my head and grinning: "Damn, that guy was taking a shit."