The Mighty Viking

I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I was merely shifting my weight, not standing up.  Although now I clearly AM finished, I was here to leave something else behind besides my dignity.  That seems to have jostled loose somewhere between caroming off the inside stall wall and the sincerity of the high-pitched scream of terror I didn’t know I had in me.  Should my dignity come sniffing around looking for me, please let it know I had to go on without it, and that it will have to find its own fare home.

Dear automated faucet:

Yes, I agree, “recoiled in horror at the display of immaturity” of your associate is the only proper tone, might I remind you that I still have needs.  I have places my hands under the sensor several times now, and am failing to develop that “freshly-washed” feeling, or, even, a mild case of damp hands.  If you could collect yourself for a moment, perhaps we could put this whole sordid scene behind us.  Or, like Moses and his rock, will I have to resort to striking you with my staff to conjure water out of you.

P.S.  if you could talk to your little friend the automated soap dispenser, perhaps suggest he breathe once in a while.  The small squeak of product he currently produces strikes me as a bit uptight.

Dear automated paper towel dispenser:

I admire your restraint in the face of such calamity, but could we remember that you are dispensing drying towels, not postage stamps.  Please note that my hands bear no volumetric resemblance to those of, say, small raccoons.  Also, the measured solemnity with which you pause between cycles is impressive, but while it would be admired in, say, a palace guard your stoicism comes across as gruff reluctance, and does not play well to the service industry to which you are employed.