Burnt Bridges

Ladies and gentlemen, in the last two days I have found myself in the restrooms of two different Exxon Tiger Marts.

 

The first one is close to the orthodontist who uses all of his skills and training in tandem with his thick accent not only to straighten the collective grills of the junior core of TharpSter.Org (relatively straight teeth are required if you want to get anywhere in this organization) but also extracts a handsome sum of cash from one of my accounts on a monthly basis.

 

The second restroom in question is strategically placed on the westbound side of one of this city’s major arteries.  It gathers its share of attention and business from that percentage  of San Antonio residents who have to take a less eviler ( that’s a word, I just made it up) route home from their daily activities of working, occupying, or whatever the hell it is they do.

 

Having visited both locations in question in response to relieve my bladder of the volume of green tea, soda, and water I’ve taken in throughout the day, let me just say this.

 

stench mapWhereas the commodes in both locations were functional and quite capable of taking on the extra volume of go go juice provided by yours truly, the offactorial (probably another word I just made up; I’m pointing this one towards “foul stench”) assault on the senses I endured both times led me to the conclusion that of the five senses, I wish my smelling could have deteriorated before my hearing and sight.

 

Wow, that was a long sentence.

 

In other news, I have it on pretty good authority that a bridge at the auxiliary office may be burnt and just short of completely dismantled.  This is what happens when sarcastic assholes who don’t hide their subterfuge work with Svengalis.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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