duskwatcher

There's something wrong with the door of the office washroom.

The knob (see Fig.1) keeps getting busted.

Leaving the washroom can be quite tricky at times. More than once, I had to claw at the door's edge like some mutt until I managed to pull back the door.

Since the start of the year, the maintenance guys must have installed five or six brand new knobs. Which would each last three days tops. Desperate for a solution, the building administration had an aluminum handle bolted on the door along with another new knob.

The knob lasted, oh, three days.

The aluminum bar lasted for five.

Now, I have two questions regarding the matter. Who the fuck can rip out an aluminum handle bar held down by metal screws? And, what can I do to avoid making him (or, possibly, it) angry?


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The building recently installed them newfangled waterless urinals (see Fig.2). They even put up a sign that says each urinal saves something like 150,000 liters of fresh water a year.

Which was a nice thought.

But then, there was a time when one toilet bowl's plumbing got screwed up (see Fig. 3). It just kept flushing. And flushing. And flushing. Until they got around to fixing it last month, the thing must have gushed out 150,000 liters of fresh water in a week.


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We share the washroom with the company located a floor below us. The place gets rather crowded right after lunch breaks. For some reason , a number of their guys don't bother to lock the cubicle doors (see Fig.4) when they piss into the bowls when the urinals are taken. And when they don't lock the cubicle doors, the little sign outside would not flip to the red "occupied" sign.

So, I'd walk up to a cubicle with the green "vacant" sign, push open the door, and hit:
a) some guy's shoes
b) some guy's butt
c) some guy's back and
d) all of the above that one time when I pushed open the door with more force than necessary.



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Every day. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. Someone would be taking a dump in the washroom. Usually in the afternoons. I guess the toilet bowls came with one free shitter so as not to waste the facilities.

Whenever I'd catch the tell-tale whiff on my way in, I'd do a 180 turn and walk the length of the corridor, and up a flight of stairs to the other washroom.

I had given up trying to pull up my t-shirt collar to my nose to avoid inhaling the stench from some stranger's sphincter. I had given up trying to hold my breath as I piss. I had given up trying to piss faster, wash up in a flash and run for the door. That was the most futile plan of all.

Remember: the knob is usually busted.

See Fig. 1.