Ya know, bathroom time is my time, and mine alone. But what confounds me is why certain establishments think they can give themselves a leg up in the classy-ness department by paying some lowlife to constanly monitor their facilities, to "help" their patrons out in the bathroom. Case in point, The Shark Bar, an expensive (but not ritzy) eatery, (owned by Puff Daddy AKA Sean "Puffy" Combs) that specializes in southern cooking. Anyway, me and my closest genetic relatives goto this place. I get up and go to the bathroom to tinkle, thinking that every thing is gonna be all smooth, the tinkling that is (unzip, use facilities, wash hands, return to family unit). But of course, this being an expensive establishment and everything, there would be none that. So I carelessly enter the bathroom, do my business, and quickly approach the mirrored sinks to wash my filthy meat hooks. Out of nowhere a voice shoots out from a dark corner. "Hey Mister! Yah need any help?! We have perfumes and soaps, and lotions, can I dry your hands?! Does your ass need any extra wiping?!" Startled, I let out a faint whelp, the kind like the sound a soldier would make after getting hit in the chest with a cannon ball (or just think of butt-head letting a out a scream of terror). It was a bathroom attendant like the ones you see in the moives (or in real life), complete with a shelf of salves, shoe shines and what have you. After recalibrating my self, I simply uttered somthing around the means of "Uhhhh, I'm alright", and continued to wash and dry my hands. But the stall watcher pressed on. "Ya know, if you have some lady friends or somthing we do have condoms..." At that point I lost it, I rushed out of the john, hands dripping, and reunited with my brood. This type of practice is sick and twisted. Do we still live in a society where one man (or woman) cannot enjoy an uninterrupted trip to the toilet? Keep your butlers out of our washrooms.

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