My Encounter with Hacky-sacks and Bathroom Ninjas

This may sound bizarre to you, but I only do it to protect myself from the harmful bacterium that is present in public restrooms. Originally, it was to practice my high kick in case I ran into any bathroom ninjas, but at this point I am finally scared of something other than ninjas.

In the past few months, I began to notice signs posted in the public bathrooms I encountered at school. These signs suggest that these germs are dangerous and harmful to me. Like any other Evil Knievel fearless college student, I laughed it off, washed it off and dried it of f.

On my next visit, to my surprise, everything was wet. I realized that I had no idea what these foreign invaders looked like, and to make matters worse, I had left my compound microscope under my bed at home. I turned to the paper towel dispenser to relieve me of the wet burdens I did not want to encounter.

But, after another blow of pain, I found that this men’s restroom was out of paper towel. It wasn’t just that, this bathroom never had paper towel.

I was stuck with a difficult conundrum. Without ruining my part mink, part suede, part leather T-shirt, I had no means of cleaning off the pool party of germs inhibiting my use of the facilities.

You may ask yourself, “Dan, why don’t you just use the toilet paper in the stall?” That is a good question, but the answer is nowhere close to what I expected next. The toilet paper was wet. Yes, I said it, and I will repeat for you skeptics reading: the toilet paper was WET.

By this point, two and a half hours had passed, and I had yet to achieve anything.

To make this day even worse, I found out I had been locked in the restroom, trapping me there for the night until the sun would rise and a kindly custodian would have to let me out.

To pass the time and keep my mind of f of bodily functions, I began to kick around my hacky-sack, keeping me fit for any monsters or ninjas that could come my way.

Roughly three hours later, I finally screwed up by kicking the small leather pouch of sand toward the still glistening stalls in the other corner of the bathroom.

Slowly, I approached the first door, finding it unlocked. Using my foot and knee, I eased the door open to see my hacky sack balanced on the toilet flushing mechanism, floating over the one dry and clean toilet in the entire building. Examining the sack, I noticed that the handle was slowly dripping toward the bowl.

In an act of desperation, I flung my foot toward the handle, knocking the hacky sack off while flushing the bleached, snaggle-toothed toilet. I began to celebrate with a short dance I had also concocted during the night, until I heard an echoing splash and watched my hacky sack travel to the next dimension.

In honor of the sack that sacrificed itself, I fought my fears and did what needed to be done. It was not until I was finished that two professors entered the facility.

I had survived my night of terror, broke one of my fears and learned a valuable skill in the process.

Then without thinking, I touched one of the sink fixtures and obtained a rare strain of tennis elbow. I was out for the whole WNBA season.

The lesson to learn from all of this is to never touch anything or anyone ever again. Ever.