Apparently the "high class" little building that houses their firm has four restrooms, but only one urinal. That urinal became, errr, "non-functioning after use" last week.
(Aside: for you women who have never ventured into a men's room, the urinal is a strange little toilet bowl that is turned and mounted on the wall for those members of the public who typically stand while.... well, you get the picture.)It is bad enough that this men's room is in the basement of the building; a cold, dank, dark little room with a perpetually-sticky linoleum tile floor and an odd smell that has become part of the paint, something of a mixture of old person sweat, mildew, and stale "broken wind." (Aside: I have been there; I can testify to the foulness that is the men's room.) On top of the usual foulness, it took three days for the so-called "maintenance man" on staff to provide a bucket so that the firm's resident males could dump several gallons of water into the urinal to "manually" flush the (by then) funky-smelling semi-solid liquid out of sight. To make matters worse, it took the cheap landlord a full week before he accepted there was something wrong with the urinal that the "maintenance man" could not fix. During this time, the men in the building were left
Shortly after the repair was completed (by a plumber not found in the Yellow Pages), my friend told his secretary that he was "going downstairs to see what he could break."
Reportedly he paused on the landing, stopped, and said, "I'm sorry, Jill. That sounded a lot better in my head."
Yeah, dude. Really? It sounded that much better in your head? I think my buddy needs a bit more sleep and a little less work in his life.
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