THEY ARE WATCHING

Yesterday evening a good friend of the opposite gender informed me that one of her coworkers firmly believes that the women's room at her office is ghost-ridden. And consequently knocks loudly to warn them off. Which is a datum that I cannot resist turning over in my head.
It's staggering.

Do bathroom ghosts observe everything?
Do they tssk, tssk when someone doesn't wash their hands?
Are they appalled by what happens in the men's room?
How would ghosts hang the roll? Do they care?
Do they wish they could still pee?

A fellow pipe smoker on the internet stated recently "when your prostate is the size of a lemon, but healthy, you just don't care anymore". One suspects that ghost prostates are rather like that. Possibly bigger better badder than ever, but it doesn't inspire concern, and it's not something to worry about.


As the little kid might have said: "W.C. dead people".


Several years ago my apartment mate came barging into the bathroom while I was in there smoking -- the bathroom is perfect for doing that in a mostly non-tobacco friendly household, because of an open window and the presumption of privacy -- loudly hollering "hellooooo, is anybody in here?" I'm slightly deaf, and I was preoccupied, so I hadn't heard her soft womanly knocking. I nearly stabbed myself with the scissors right then.
I believe most men trim their goatees at the sink.
In any case, it's not embarrassing.

Since then I keep an eagle ear cocked to her stumbling around in the hallway. And exclaim "oop, ack" whenever it sounds like she's coming too close. Oop, ack. Like Bill The Cat in Bloom County. Oop, ack. People living together should always have signature sounds so as to keep from startling each other. Hers is "beh", like a happy sheep.


Dematerialized people have neither effective vocal cords, nor an inner ear sensory epithelium studded with hair cells that release a chemical neuro-transmitter when they are stimulated. If they are ever stimulated. At least, one must assume that. So the chances of them being horribly offended by the poetry slam (free verse, ptooey!) held last night outside Vesuvio Cafe in Jack Kerouac Alley are probably zilch. And, by the same token, they probably don't hear loud knocking on the bathroom door.

So the reason why they hide in the women's room is obvious.
It's the presumption of privacy.
Oop, ack.




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================