Maybe it was my Dad’s upbringing and how his parents survived the flu epidemic of 1918, but he’s a germ-o-phob (is that how you spell it?)  My wife freaks out about germs too.  So maybe all of this has rubbed off on me … maybe I’ve been infected.

Today was the day the germ broke this office-worker’s back.  There is this man who works at my office who doesn’t wash his hands.  He has a mullet, a beard, wears those ugly brown loafers with the tassels and he doesn’t sport a belt.  To finish off his ensemble, he coolly wears a gold braclet and necklace.  This guy is really cool.  He belongs in Nashville singing on Yee Haw.

I’ve been in the bathroom for number one when he walks in.  I finish first and then wash my hands with steamy hot water and lots of soap.  My hands are so clean, I’m prepped for surgury.  While I’m drying my hands, this perv nonchalantly walks past me, pauses in front of the mirror to admire his mullet and then exits the bathroom!  What the hell!?

Plastered on the mirror are signs urging people to wash their grimy hands.

He’s the reason why I carry my paper towel with me all the way back to my desk.  There’s no way on earth that I’m going to touch the doorknob this hobo defiled.  His hand was touching his junk; his hand then touched the doorknob, therefore his junk is all over the doorknob.

As bad as an offense he committed without washing after number one; it was nothing compared to the total disregard of the strict rule of washing after number two.  Yep, that’s right.  Today while steaming up the mirror with scalding hot water and scrubbing the skin off my hands, I watched Mullet-Man egress a stall and walk right past the sinks!  Just as he was about touch the door handle, I yelled out, “HALT YOU DIRTY BASTARD!!”

He was caught off guard a bit.  The water was still running; he was looking at me with his brown-smudged hand inches from the steel bar of the door.  It was a show-down at the OK Corral Bathroom.  “You get your smutty hands back in here right now and wash em!”

“Oh yeah?  What you gonna do if I don’t?” he smirked back.

“I will get on the public announcement system and tell the whole damn company that ol-dirty-dick-hands left the bathroom without washing.  You’ll be an outcast.”

He replied, “I dare you.”

“Touch that door handle and I will.”

His eyes met my eyes.  Steam was filling the bathroom.  A bead of sweat emerged from his forehead and rolled down his face.  I was as calm as a hot summer day in Texas.  Both of us were waiting for the other to draw.

“You ain’t gonna do it” and then he pulled the handle and walked out.

I shut the water off, dried my hands and then proceeded to the PA phone to make an annoucement.

“Attention.  May I have your attention.  Billy Ray Roberts has just been to the little-boy’s room to make a deposit.  He left the bathroom without even glancing at the sink.  His hands are highly contagious.  If he comes to your office, get out the Lysol.  Thank you!”

The rest of the day, my co-workers avoided Billy Ray like the plague.  He was an outcast and shunned from all social contact.

Today, my fellow germ-o-phobes, we have taken a step closer to a cleaner world.

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