The Waffle House bathroom is tiny, barely the size of a closet, with just the one toilet in it. Strictly a one-man operation. But the lock on the door is one seriously heavy-duty industrial strength piece of hardware.

It took me a minute to realize why such a beefy lock is on the inside. Why would you need such a huge lock to keep people out of a one-hole bathroom? Because it’s the Waffle House bathroom, and it only has one hole.

I’ve spent most of every minute of the last two days at work running. They have my workspace set up in the absolute worst possible place — I’m in the corner furthest from everything in the office (and don’t think I’m not taking it personally) — so all day long I’m basically just lapping the building, going from Person A to Production Studio B to Office C, back to my laptop at Corner Z, then doing it all over again. I stop in each place for about 5 – 10 minutes, answer 49 questions ranging from not-dumb-at-all to holy-shit-you’re-a-fucking-moron, then move on to the next.

And all along the way, I’m farting. Oh yeah, I’m gassing the joint, big-time. I dunno what it is, but I’m a walking methane plant right now. Maybe it’s residual from Waffle House the other night, I dunno. Whatever, all the walking is working out okay since it lets me spread it around while on the move and not draw attention to myself (“Who farted?” is no doubt echoing 30 seconds behind me all day). The hard part is not, uh, venting when I’m standing next to someone’s desk showing them how to do something. Especially the stupid ones. Especially the stupid ones. I don’t think I’m going to be able to resist the temptation to just let one rip while I’m in a small office — I’ll blow the foghorn and say, “Oh gosh, I’m sorry.” And then give them the loooooong answer to their incredibly stupid question.

Poot.