Dead Aim

I’m beginning to look like Grizzly Adams.

For some reason, I vowed not to shave or cut my hair until I finished a certain writing project I’ve been working on. Could be some sort of Sampson complex I suppose, but now everything is starting to itch like crazy.

Yes, that was a lame segue into the following...

I have a window office, which is great, but it’s right near the restrooms. From my desk, I can see everyone coming and going. I know that so-and-so goes in there at the same time every day to snort coke and I think it’s enough to say that I know not to take a bathroom break right after certain people have been in there.

So I’m in the men’s restroom the other day and as I go to wash up, I notice something all over the sink and counter: Tiny little specks. Tiny little black specks. Tiny little black specks everywhere. Upon further inspection, I realize these are someone’s whiskers or shavings or trimmings or whatever you want to call it.

This is foul, nasty, and let's face it, uncivilized.

And I know who is responsible.

I realize that Mr. Reporter-for-an-unnamed-celebrity-gossip-show is sometimes in a time crunch and has to shave quickly before going on camera, but for the love of all that is clean and tidy, can’t you clean up after yourself? How about the makeup and dressing room? Or maybe take 5 seconds to rinse out the sink? I swear, of all the on-air talent I’ve known, it always seems to be the men who are the prissiest queens.

I taped a note to the mirror that said, “Please clean up your whiskers. This is disgusting.”

How positively passive-aggressive of me.