As a high flying solicitor who drinks a great deal of water as well as a variety of other fluids, I tend to break up my working day with brief excursions to the gentlemen's toilet room or thunderbox if you will, (be sure to note however that I never pass thunder during work hours.) On a recent visit to the kidderminster I stepped barefoot into a moral quagmire that could endanger my career and bring disrepute to the profession as a whole. I shall recount it to you now.
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| Steven Segal is in a band called Thunderbox. |
Slipping out of a meeting with a client (Mrs X) regarding her upcoming divorce, I made one of my usual visits to pass hot liquid lightning into my favoured stall (like an increasing number of men in the 21st Century, I prefer the rectilinear peace of mind provided by a cubicle to the tear drop vulgarity of a urinal) Adopting my usual stance; legs apart, eyes to the heavens I awaited the rush of what had, mere hours earlier, been a decanter of icy highland-spring water. Everything was in place for what seemed to be some textbook micturition when I became aware of the presence of a fellow user inside the cubicle! I had neglected to secure the fortifications of the cubicle with the provided slide lock! I longed to cry "Occupato!" but my larynx had seized up along with Aretha, my urethra.
I froze, head down me eyes darting to my left to take in the man beside me. He swiftly unzipped and nudged me in the arm. "Cross the streams!" He enthused.
I remained rooted to the spot, member in hand (he too had frozen and shrivelled slightly in the presence of a rival pipe.) "I..."
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| Mine was the expression of the Stay Puff'd Marshmallow Man... to begin with. |
"Cross the streams!" He said again, but this time I sensed a hint of almost brotherly tenderness. With one hand, he squeezed my elbow and playfully swayed his midriff from side to side, chuckling softly.
I was swept up in the moment. I let myself go... to the man's great pleasure and eventually we were both hooting and howling over the rush of our combined effluence crashing 'gainst the pristine porcelain of the solicitor-class bowel basin.
"Yeaaaaahhhhhaaaaaahhhh!" He howled. Then with no thought of hygiene or even replacing my modesty in its cotton pouch, we turned to face each other in the cramped stall, locked eyes and high fived repeatedly and vigorously.(High fived is not a euphemism for a sex act, just to be clear... I know your Haiku Panzer force habit of using bold, italics and tiny text to accentuate certain phrases and I am wise to it.)
But then before I had the chance to offer to wash this gentleman's hands, secretly hoping that he in turn would wash mine, he bolted out of the cubicle leaving me to activate the flush and thoroughly sterilise my paws after the encounter. Who was this man? Why had he chosen me? On looking into the other cubicles I noticed they were empty so it was not for want of space that he chose to cross the streams with this particular solicitor.
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| No scarcity of cubicles... then why? |
I left the men's room exhilarated but I could already feel the adrenaline rush subsiding before I had returned to my office. Back to th trivialities of Mrs X's divorce from Mr X! No doubt a momentous passage in the lives of the X's but a process I can now go through with my eyes screwed shut and my fingers thrust far into the canals of my ears.
When I reached my office, my assistant hissed a warning before I crossed the threshold into the office proper "Mrs X's husband is here with his solicitor", they were a little early but I was more than prepared to wring this hapless fool for every shilling in his grimy pockets. I entered the room with a hearty greeting but stopped in horror when I saw the man who awaited me...
It was the man from the cubicle... the man I had crossed swords with just moments before!
"This is my husband, Mr X" sighed Mrs X flatly. "Not for long I hope", said Mr X, a cruel grin shooting across his face, reaching out a hand that may well have been drenched in my own bladder brandy.
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| It can't be! |
Rats! How do I proceed when dealing with a man with whom I've intersected golden arcs? Is this a conflict of interests? What was I to do... what am I to do? I'm still here now... I'm pretending I'm picking a suitable album from Spotify as background music when I'm fully aware that nothing kicks off divorce proceedings like Chet Baker. They're starting to get suspicious. Help me Haiku Panzer Force!
Kind Regards,
Alan Cliffe
Dear Alan,
Fuck you for not knowing anything about the Law. Of course this is a conflict of interest, in fact if you'd done a little research you might know that this is a common technique amongst men going through divorces. In fact it was one of the fun facts recently omitted from our Paul McCartney Factstravaganza a few days ago - that whilst going through his divorce, Sir Paul crossed the streams with all the finest lawyers in the UK so that none of them could represent Heather Mills and she was forced to resort to using an entirely stop motion animated legal team when the big day arrived.
Sadly for Sir Paul the claymation litigators performed pretty spectacularly, if painfully slowly, and Mills is now something something something. Point is, you better find a window to climb out of before shit gets real. And Chet Baker is no way to divorce anyone, try some Sammy D.
Warm best wishes,
Haiku Panzer Force
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