Is there a more useless, vestigial vocation than ‘bathroom attendant?”  I need a bathroom attendant like I need a pre-pubescent boy to powder my wig and wash my leggings.  And at least with the boy, I would get to scold him for his impudence and smack him in the back of the head, whereas I have to give the bathroom attendant a dollar. Note to attendants who can read: If you let me scream “The Impudence!!!” then smack you, I will no longer have a problem with you and will gladly fork over a buck, or even two.  One Ruthless forumite celebrated attendants, citing a Chicago area bathroom attendant who also served double duty as a shoe shine boy, supposedly exemplifying a bygone era of dignity and self respect… for customers.  Shit, how do you complete that trifecta of anachronous degradation?  Does the dude operate a rickshaw during the day?

These guys still exist in California casinos for the simple reason that the patrons are primarily zoo animals.  I once had a conversation at work in which a coworker and I began to recount to a third person, the time someone took a shit in the middle of the casino floor.  After thirty seconds or so, it became clear that we were actually talking about two separate instances in which two separate people decided to pull down their pants, squat in a room full of several hundred people and pitch a loaf on the carpet.  I suspect there is no such problem at Cost Plus, and can understand why a full time staff is required to struggle against the tide of excrement from people who grew up shitting in their drinking water.  Still, duties should be limited
to mopping, restocking and making sure that the high powered fans that blast away the vapors from chili-paste infused, projectile dihiaria never, never stop blowing.  Unfortunately, these duties fail to keep the attendants fully occupied, so they pass their time milling about and making me uncomfortable.  The worst offender is at the Commerce top section.
The high stakes players at the largest card room in the world have access to a bathroom that could cause the owner of a Hardee’s in Wyoming to loose his franchise to scathing reports from secret shoppers.  The aisle separating the urinals from the
stalls is narrow—perhaps four feet. Nevertheless, I have never used, or attempted to use the urinals without the attendant happening to have found some excuse to wander the narrow strip of tiles behind me.

Label me homophobic or a pussy according to your political persuasion, but I’m not comfortable urinating while an obese illiterate with a comb over furiously sweats over my shoulder.  I mean, I understand you’re an illegal immigrant and have limited options, but don’t ask me to believe that chosing a job in the men’s room rather than at a car wash is anything other than evidence that your closet is full of yellow and brown hankies.  That’s cool, but I still don’t want you watching me piss.