OK, this gray and cloudy Friday morning finds your girl Diary all fired up and ready to fight.
We have a problem at work. It is a problem so serious that my company incurred great expense in trying to solve it. And to no avail. What problem is it, you ask?
Bitches talking on cell phones in the bathroom.
Don't scoff, it's serious. I don't know about you, but when someone is broadcasting over the airwaves, I get a little shy. Performance anxiety. I didn't go in there to share the news of my Venti Iced Latte with the world. When I hit the ladies, I'm all about the business. There's no NY Times, there's no snacks and beverages and there sure as hell ain't no effing phone. (Pardon the double negative, but I am too fired up to be grammatically correct. Who am I kidding, I'm NEVER grammatically correct.)
This problem is so pervasive in my office that the company actually built a vestibule outside of the bathroom and outfitted it with comfy chairs, so that these classless ho-bags would have a place to yack with their pals. Not good enough I guess.
Yesterday afternoon, I walked into the ladies and sure enough, some skank-ass-ho-sicle was yammering away on the phone in the first stall (bad enough on its own), then mid-sentence, she begins to audibly drop anchor. I was like, Hobagsaywhat?!?! My fight or flight response went into full '767 on the runway at JFK' mode and I washed my hands faster than The Flash and got the hell outta Dodge. Hopefully her friend on the other end appreciates the fact that Chatty Cathy's regimen of Activia and Bran Flakes was paying off. What. The. Hell?
So, for this hideous and unladylike behavior, I am awarding Miss Talkshow Poofest 2010 with the most repulsive of awards. Sittin On tha Toilet - The Remix. I hope she chokes on her own exhaust.