“Get out of there!”
This voice, deep and gruff, startled the hell out of Tiger. Was some restroom deity angered with the way he’d carelessly shook his weasel, causing stray drops of urine to hit tile? The bellowing voice was coming from one of the toilet stalls behind him.
“C’mere you! That’s it … poke your head out … now the rest of ya’s.”
Who the fuck was this guy talking to? Himself?
“Atta boy! Now it’s your turn, mister!”
It then dawned on Tiger that the man was yelling at his turds. Working at a giant hospital like Cedar-Sinai, you come across all sorts of characters: the deranged, the severely constipated, or both.
“C’mon! Get down there with the rest of your pals!”
Tiger told me this story a long-ass time ago. To this day I still can’t forget it, especially today at the office, when I felt like the angry crapping man. I was pacing back and forth, gritting my teeth, talking to no one in particular.
"C'mon! Get outta there!!"
The ideas just won’t come out, like the stubborn little shits they are. But tomorrow I’m yanking those bastards out. I’ll grab a pair of really long chopsticks if I have to. Shove them up through my nose into the brain cavity where the giggling fuckers are hiding behind the hippocampus.
Advertising really is loads of fun though. You should try it some time.