Prudential Center Sicko

So, I had gone to drop a deuce the other day at the Prudential Center in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood when a pervert stuck his head under the stall wall and looked up at me. I had been happily daydreaming about destructive medieval warfare and archaic Scandinavian woodcarving techniques until this sick bastard brought my illusionary bliss to a disturbingly abrupt halt. Honestly, there’s nothing that ruins your potty-time escapist fantasies like a sick bastard tom peeping on you so blatantly that it can’t even technically be considered tom peeping.

But that brings me to my next thought. Blatant or not, was tom peepery prevalent in Old Norse society? And, more specifically, how about fecalfelia-induced tom peepery? I’m not a proper scholar versed in the subtleties of Old Norse society, but I have read a fair number of books on the subject and none of them have ever discussed Viking tom peepery, fecalfelia-related or otherwise. It’s not like my hopes and dreams are shattered every time I crack open another book about Vikings and tom peepery (or voyeurism or whatever serious historians/archaeologists would choose to call it) isn’t listed in the index; it’s just a statement based on my own personal observations made in light of this recent incident. Do we really know anything at all about Viking tom peepery? It seems like the answer is probably no. Somebody working on a phd should write a dissertation on this subject and then make sure the info gets included in the next edition of A History of the Vikings or Exploring the World of the Vikings.

Anyway, getting back to the point at hand. So, there was this sick individual staring up at me and my daydream of constructing an elegant wooden vessel capable of ruthless medieval, seaborne destruction evaporated into thin air. At first I just kind of looked at the guy. I mean, shit, there was a guy there. Personally, I’m accustomed to there usually not being a guy there. That kind of thing just sort of stops you in your tracks.

I’d even venture to go so far as to say that I think most of us probably take it for granted that when you close that stall door, you seal yourself off from the rest of the world and retreat into your own little, private bubble of safety. And most of us probably presume the bathroom stall bubble to be less prone to bursting than, say, the banking and real estate ones proved to be, right? Because who wants to watch someone else go? A sick fuck, apparently, that’s who. And this one not only said to hell with both societal norms and the innate human aversion to solid waste that most of us possess, but he also got down on the ground in the men’s room in order to gratify those perverse desires of his. That in and of itself is just plain nasty since most stalls in men’s restrooms have splotches, sometimes puddles even, of urine on the floor (a small price to pay for the virtue of being able to pee standing up, but what do I know, maybe women get it all over the place, too).

So, there we were, me and the crazed pervert, just staring at each other, myself temporarily too stunned to respond in proper, berserker fashion (I always lock up when I should go berserk, goddamnit). But then he gave me one of those sly, flirtatious eyebrow lifts that smarmy, self-confident dudes use to try and impress the ladies and that finally spurred me out of my stupor. I should have let the battle-rage take me then and there and kicked his face, but he was out of reach, and I was immobilized, so I just asked him what he was doing and he left.

Heraldry

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