I like love NEED to wash my hands.  I wash them very thoroughly and very vigorously on a frequent basis.  If I touch our dog, I wash my hands.  If I touch a bathroom door (or anything in a bathroom), I wash my hands.  If I touch a slightly dirty dish, I was my hands.  If I touch my hands, I wash my hands!  Well, not so much that last one, but I am very neurotic about my hands.  Why does any of this matter?  My vigorous hand washing practices can sometimes leave water on the counter around the sink.  I can’t deny that.

And now, we come to the event that has inspired this post.  I, having felt the need, went to the bathroom to, as the plebeians say, “take a dump.”  Thankfully, nobody else was in the restroom when I entered (I have a thing about using the bathroom when people are around, or can hear me, or smell my emanations, etc, but that’s a story for a different day), so I proceeded to layer toilet paper over the seat.  I sat down and took my dump.  As I prepared to commence wiping duties (hehe, “duties”), someone entered the restroom and headed into the other stall.  I finished my task, and pulled up my pants (using toilet paper as a buffer between my dirty hands and my clean pants, of course).  I heard the other individual finish up his dump as I prepared to exit my stall.  I headed to the counter and started washing my hands thoroughly, getting some water on the counter as I reached for the soap dispenser.  The other man, whom we will call “Joe” (because that’s his name), headed to the counter as well, just as I finished rinsing the soap from my hands.

He proceeded to remark, “You know, I notice that every time you wash your hands, you leave water on the counter.  I usually clean it up, but then I wondered why the hell I was cleaning up your mess.  Pay attention like you do at home.”  He then left the bathroom after a quick two-second rinse of his hands (I kid you not).  This man, “Joe”, never washes his hands after peeing, and apparently is fine with a ridiculously quick rinse after crapping.  Were I slightly bolder and less courteous, I would have replied to his rudeness with a comment of my own, “I’m sorry, does it disgust you when I leave water on the counter?  Wash your goddamn hands, you disgusting son of a bitch.”

I said no such thing, unfortunately.  Maybe next time he brings a file into my office, I’ll tell him to go wash his hands and prepare a new copy of the file for me, because I know where his hands have been.

Fuck you, “Joe”.  Wash your fucking hands.

-Because I said so