Kills 99% of bacteria

The Lysol Can…

Remember how I said I’d eventually get back to the Lysol can?

Well…

Here we are.

After doing this job for nearly two decades, I’ve seen weird.

Actually…

Scratch that.

Weird doesn’t even register anymore.

Weird has become normal.

Like sticking your hand into a tub of butt butter kind of normal.

Don’t know what butt butter is?

Google it.

I’ll wait.

…

Delightful, isn’t it?

So how exactly does someone get to the point where a Lysol can becomes part of the conversation?

Well…

It all starts with one very unfortunate bottle of disinfectant.

Let me explain.

Like most of my stories…

It started out like any other day at the studio.

You’ll probably hear me say that a lot.

Because honestly?

Most days really are pretty normal.

But I’ve learned something over the years.

The second you acknowledge how normal things are…

The universe takes it personally.

It’s exactly like working in healthcare.

Never…

Ever…

Say the word quiet.

You don’t do it.

You don’t even think it.

Because the second those words leave your mouth, you’re suddenly elbow-deep in someone else’s bodily fluids while chasing a sundowner down the hallway…

Or being chased yourself.

Healthcare has rules.

So does this industry.

If you ever think,

“Wow… no weirdos today.”

They hear you.

I swear they do.

Like some sort of bizarre dog whistle.

They know.

And they come.

Whether I blew the whistle that day or somebody else did…

He heard it.

Because in walked this gentleman asking if anyone offered prostate massage.

Simple enough.

“Finger in the butt?”

Sure.

Why not?

How hard could it be?

Famous.

Last.

Words.

We head into the room and I start the massage.

The actual massage lasted maybe…

Five minutes.

Then he rolls over onto his back, pulls his knees up toward his chest and…

Well…

Let’s just say the scenery changed dramatically.

Now…

When I say this man’s asshole was gaping…

I mean…

Gaping.

It looked less like anatomy and more like a portal.

A black hole.

I’m convinced if anything went in there, it wasn’t coming back.

Stephen Hawking himself could’ve written an entire thesis on this man’s asshole.

I’m pretty sure the answers to time travel were somewhere in there.

Anyway…

Interstellar asshole aside…

He starts looking around the room.

His eyes land on the candle sitting on the shelf.

He points at it.

“Can you put that in my ass?”

I looked over.

“The candlestick?”

“No…” I said.

“That’s decorative.”

Then he asks,

“Can you put your hand in my ass?”

I blinked.

“Like… my whole hand?”

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Just…

Yes.

I thought about it for a second.

“I mean… I guess…”

“But I’m gonna need gloves.”

So I crouched down and opened the cupboard under the sink.

No gloves.

Perfect.

“Hang tight,” I said.

“I’ll go grab some.”

I walked down to the storage room, grabbed a few pairs and headed back.

Opened the door.

Closed it behind me.

Turned around.

Fully expecting to be greeted once again by what I’d now affectionately named…

The Stargate.

Instead…

I froze.

Because what I saw wasn’t remotely on my bingo card.

This man had one hand wrapped around a shiny silver cylinder…

And was enthusiastically introducing it to the Stargate.

For a solid five seconds my brain simply refused to process what I was looking at.

It wasn’t until I caught the reflection in the mirror…

And saw the label.

Lysol.

This man…

Was using a Lysol can as a marital aid.

Apparently while I’d gone looking for gloves…

I’d also left the cupboard open.

Along with the gloves, we kept all the cleaning supplies in there.

Including…

You guessed it.

The Lysol we used to disinfect the massage tables.

Now here’s the really bizarre part.

He didn’t even acknowledge me.

Not a glance.

Not a pause.

Nothing.

Like this was the most normal Tuesday afternoon activity imaginable.

Meanwhile I’m standing there wondering if I’ve accidentally wandered into another dimension.

So…

I quietly left the room again.

Honestly…

At that point I figured my services were no longer required.

Whatever relationship he and that Lysol can had…

I wasn’t about to become the third wheel.

The look on my face must’ve said everything because the second I walked out, my boss looked at me and asked,

“Are you okay?”

“Yep.”

“Then why’d you leave?”

“He doesn’t need me anymore.”

She looked completely confused.

So I simply said,

“He’s using the Lysol can.”

There was a brief moment where I watched her facial expression evolve from confusion…

To realization…

To…

“What the actual fuck?”

It was honestly kind of beautiful.

About five minutes later I figured I’d better check on things.

I walked back into the room.

Sure enough…

I’d been right.

He was getting dressed.

He smiled.

Left a forty-dollar tip on the table.

Thanked me.

And walked out.

Like absolutely nothing unusual had happened.

Then my eyes drifted over to the shelf.

There it sat.

The now very lonely Lysol can.

Oddly enough…

It actually looked…

Clean.

Which somehow made the whole situation even stranger.

A few seconds later my boss walked into the room.

She immediately spotted the can.

We both just stood there looking at it.

Neither one of us wanting to be the first person to acknowledge the giant disinfectant-shaped elephant in the room.

My brain immediately went,

“Do you… Lysol… the Lysol can?”

Like…

Is there a protocol for this?

Do they cover this in management training?

Before I could say anything, my boss disappeared.

A few moments later she returned carrying a garbage bag.

Without saying a word, she carefully tipped the can into the bag like it was radioactive.

Then she looked at me and simply said,

“Grab another can.”

And that was that.

To this day…

Every time I walk down the cleaning aisle at Walmart…

I make eye contact with the Lysol cans…

And immediately look away.

Some memories…

You just can’t disinfect.