We were sitting around yesterday during lunch, as we’re likely to do, telling stories about the chemical plant we work in. One story, in particular, I felt necessary to share, for it contains a valuable lesson.

Following one Christmas party hosted by the company some time in the late ‘70s, Stan and Fred, two maintenance workers, decided to stop off for a late dinner at a Denny’s with their wives. Stan told the other three to head in to the restaurant, that he was going to be following them momentarily, and took off behind the restaurant to go to the bathroom.

So Fred, Fred’s wife, and Stan’s wife are waiting at the table for Stan to arrive so they can order. Waiting. Waiting. Half an hour passes and still no Stan.

Fred looks out the restaurant window to see Stan trying desperately to signal him. He leaves the restaurant to meet Stan in the parking lot only to find him all torn up, and bloodied. Being a naturally inquisitive fellow, Fred asked what had happened.

Apparently, behind the Denny’s the land drops off into a ten-foot ditch. Now someone, perhaps the property owners, had lined the bottom of the ditch with broken concrete to prevent the bank from eroding over time.

So Stan, when he went behind the Denny’s to go to the bathroom, backed his ass over the cliff in order to take a shit. Yes, that’s right. He decided it would be better for him to take a shit over a ledge, than in the Denny’s bathroom.

And as Stan backed his ass over the ledge, he lost his balance, and fell ten feet down into the ditch, landing (and bouncing) on broken concrete, and into a pile of his own feces.

Fred rounded up the wives, and together they drove Stan to the hospital. The four of them drove the fifteen miles to the hospital in silence, Stan reeking of blood, shit, and shame. After Stan learned that he was beaten enough to miss a few weeks of work, he swore Fred, his friend, to secrecy.

Naturally, when he returned to work the following Monday morning, Fred blabbed to anyone who would listen; the entire plant knew of Stan’s “accident.”

A few weeks later, when Stan had healed to the point where he could return to work, Fred, panicked, began swearing everyone he told to secrecy.

“Sure, Fred. No problem. I won’t mention it to Stan.”

Well you know how that goes. People made signs and poems about Stan’s fall off a cliff into a pile of shit and concrete. Stan, furious, was forever tearing them down until someone was able to affix one to the locker room wall with industrial strength adhesive.

I think we can all learn a valuable lesson here.

Never trust your friends. Or, look before you leap. Or, if you make a mistake, make sure no one is around to see it. Or, you gotta know when to hold ‘em, and know when to fold ‘em.

Or, if you have to shit, use a bathroom because you may just fall ten feet into concrete and become the laughing stock of your workplace.

READ THESE JOURNALS Uncle Bob SaraH

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