The play is on.
I notice that the theater is huge and gaudy. Velvet curtains and embrocaded trimmings in corners. Lace up the wazoo. People in formal frocks and coats, sucking up the sugarpop entertainment.
The amateurish display of emotion and hamfisted characterization disgusts me. I know I can do better than the actors onstage so I get up. To exit, perhaps?
No, the burning need to urinate consumes me.
I head for the lavatory only to find no urinals. Instead, there are sinks at multiple levels — shallow, aluminum sinks only about an inch thick and protruding from the walls like shelves rather than washbasins.
In horror, I realize even the lowest level sink is too high for me so I gather some chairs laying about and stack them one atop the other. Monobloc tetris, I think to myself in delight.
Then the desperate need to relieve my bladder is upon me. I climb the chairs and aim… And I start to pray that the sink minimizes the splash zone. But I know this will be yet another wet predicament in my repertoire of faux pas-es.
