Today's Apropos of Nothing Anecdote
At my college, there was a theater professor who was
old and gross. He might have, at one time, been a bril-
liant teacher or a fine artist, but by the time I went
through there he was a grizzled, sagging creature who
was content just to make nineteen year olds run around
a stage in skimpy outfits. All the pretty girls ended up in
his plays and, if he fancied them, he’d let them know which
way they could stand to show off their breasts most appeal-
ingly. He was sort of a running joke. You could get a reliable
rise out of the theater chicks by accusing them of sleeping
with him. If you were drunk enough or tasteless enough,
you could embellish the encounters with the sorts of sounds
he would make as he struggled to achieve the geriatric-on-
post-adolescent congress he so obviously longed for. In this
oddly common undergraduate game, I regret to say that I
had the trump card. I had the golden gossip on the pervert
professor. The reason for this? Nothing other than the fact
that we had once shared a bathroom break.
Let me explain. One time I went to a play in the basement
of my college’s strange, labyrinthine fine-arts building.
When intermission rolled around, I had that I’ll-piss-all-
over-myself-if-I-don’t-get-to-a-toilet-right-now feeling.
So I shot off to the toilets, but the men’s room closest to
the theater had an honest-to-goodness line. As a man, I
wasn’t used to this situation and–furthermore–I wasn’t
physically able to cope with it. So I ran further and fur-
ther into the bowels of the building until I found another
men's room. I ducked inside and bellied up to the pisser
and let go a stream that was, to me, awesome in its
strength and duration.
Halfway through this sweetly satisfying interlude, the
door swung open and this professor came waddling in.
He peered at me for a moment, muttered a raspy hello,
and sidled up to the urinal beside mine. I stayed silent. I
had to get back to the play, but my bladder wasn’t finished
yet. I tried to hurry it along, but I was more or less stuck.
Next to me, the professor undid his belt and his zipper
and he worked his way through his undergarments until
he was ready to take care of business. That’s when he
made the sound.
This sound, I feel it’s not inaccurate to say, became legend-
ary among the artsy-fartsy set at my conservative mid-
western college. This was my sophomore year, and I was
still getting requests to recreate it at my graduation parties.
Freshmen were hauled up in front of me and I dutifully did
the sound for them. The sound gave me a popularity that,
I’m sorry to say, my wit and charm and Brad Pittesque
good looks couldn’t achieve alone. Now, in the interests
of having something to write about, I will attempt to put
down the sound for posterity here. I don’t know if it will
translate into letters, but here’s my best effort:
HEEEEEEEEEEEhhhhhhhhhahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaassssssss-
sssssshhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHH!
I’m not too proud to say that the sound, there in that dirty
art school toilet, terrified me. It sounded like an unholy
cross between George Bush laughing and a hog call. Even
more hideous, however, was the racket that followed. That
Wilford-Brimley looking fart went like he was holding a
fire-hose in his trousers. I didn’t even wash my hands, I
didn’t even zip up. I had to get out of there before the
whole basement flooded with his urine. It was as though
he hadn’t gone once in my entire lifetime.
I collected myself somewhere halfway down the corridor.
I fixed my fly and went back to the play. It was about a
future world with no free will. I remember that it sucked.
old and gross. He might have, at one time, been a bril-
liant teacher or a fine artist, but by the time I went
through there he was a grizzled, sagging creature who
was content just to make nineteen year olds run around
a stage in skimpy outfits. All the pretty girls ended up in
his plays and, if he fancied them, he’d let them know which
way they could stand to show off their breasts most appeal-
ingly. He was sort of a running joke. You could get a reliable
rise out of the theater chicks by accusing them of sleeping
with him. If you were drunk enough or tasteless enough,
you could embellish the encounters with the sorts of sounds
he would make as he struggled to achieve the geriatric-on-
post-adolescent congress he so obviously longed for. In this
oddly common undergraduate game, I regret to say that I
had the trump card. I had the golden gossip on the pervert
professor. The reason for this? Nothing other than the fact
that we had once shared a bathroom break.
Let me explain. One time I went to a play in the basement
of my college’s strange, labyrinthine fine-arts building.
When intermission rolled around, I had that I’ll-piss-all-
over-myself-if-I-don’t-get-to-a-toilet-right-now feeling.
So I shot off to the toilets, but the men’s room closest to
the theater had an honest-to-goodness line. As a man, I
wasn’t used to this situation and–furthermore–I wasn’t
physically able to cope with it. So I ran further and fur-
ther into the bowels of the building until I found another
men's room. I ducked inside and bellied up to the pisser
and let go a stream that was, to me, awesome in its
strength and duration.
Halfway through this sweetly satisfying interlude, the
door swung open and this professor came waddling in.
He peered at me for a moment, muttered a raspy hello,
and sidled up to the urinal beside mine. I stayed silent. I
had to get back to the play, but my bladder wasn’t finished
yet. I tried to hurry it along, but I was more or less stuck.
Next to me, the professor undid his belt and his zipper
and he worked his way through his undergarments until
he was ready to take care of business. That’s when he
made the sound.
This sound, I feel it’s not inaccurate to say, became legend-
ary among the artsy-fartsy set at my conservative mid-
western college. This was my sophomore year, and I was
still getting requests to recreate it at my graduation parties.
Freshmen were hauled up in front of me and I dutifully did
the sound for them. The sound gave me a popularity that,
I’m sorry to say, my wit and charm and Brad Pittesque
good looks couldn’t achieve alone. Now, in the interests
of having something to write about, I will attempt to put
down the sound for posterity here. I don’t know if it will
translate into letters, but here’s my best effort:
HEEEEEEEEEEEhhhhhhhhhahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaassssssss-
sssssshhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHH!
I’m not too proud to say that the sound, there in that dirty
art school toilet, terrified me. It sounded like an unholy
cross between George Bush laughing and a hog call. Even
more hideous, however, was the racket that followed. That
Wilford-Brimley looking fart went like he was holding a
fire-hose in his trousers. I didn’t even wash my hands, I
didn’t even zip up. I had to get out of there before the
whole basement flooded with his urine. It was as though
he hadn’t gone once in my entire lifetime.
I collected myself somewhere halfway down the corridor.
I fixed my fly and went back to the play. It was about a
future world with no free will. I remember that it sucked.
