Our company moved to a shared office space early this year. When the "W" on the women's restroom sign mysteriously went missing, my fellow engineering geeks and I had a fine time making the sign read silly words, until our pranks were shut down by building management. [Read Part 1 and Part 2 here.]
Having been threatened with the Patriot Act, I thought it was time to take my prank to a much bigger stage. Fortunately, the following week I was scheduled to travel to the largest, greatest, and funniest city in the world, except for Boston and a few others.
NEW YORK!
If I can prank it here, I can prank it anywhere.
My first night in New York is a resounding defeat. The restaurant that I've chosen for my first restroom sign prank has those funky wooden plaques on the door. Although I'm from the Midwest and whittling skills are required high school curriculum, I'm out of practice. Fail #1.
My second night is no better. I have dinner in a deserted sushi restaurant, then excuse myself to the restroom to rearrange their sign. When I exit the MEN's bathroom, I notice the opposing sign read LADIES. "What the MC Hammer?" I say, trying desperately to improvise. "Bladies, Sladies, Ladiesamenarea..." I got nothing. Fail #2.
On my last day in the land o' plenty, I'm feeling the pressure. I grab my backpack of supplies and step into the humid summer air of New York. My luck changes immediately: I find a nearby hotel where I finally taste success with RADIOmen. New York, here I am.
"This restroom may only be used by radio operators or technicians."
I walk a few blocks in a fog of humidity, arriving at the PIER 17 mall.
Because PIER 16 left us with so many unanswered questions.
The restroom is about two miles away from the front entrance, so this is not a good shopping destination for those with weak bladders. I finally find the restroom, only to feel the pain of failure yet again:
BBW sign.
I have no letters that large, and I can barely reach the big WOMEN sign. I forge ahead, affixing tape to the back of my sign as I ask a Polish man who's smartly dressed in a Captain & Tennille T-shirt to give me a boost. I slap it on with a circling right windmill, like Dr. J or Pete Townsend, nearly ballslapping the poor guy in the face. I give him a dollar, take my picture and run out of the mall.
This is not a real phone number ... that I know of.
Unfortunately, I had pulled my right butt cheek muscle the previous night lifting weights, so now I'm running like a limpy Frodo Baggins with half Gandalf hair and a +4 backpack of back slapping.
I make it to the subway, where it's so hot that I'm instantly covered in sweat from my graying head to my graying sacramento. But my early successes have filled me with courage and power. I'm that guy standing in front of the tank in Tienanmen Square, only armed with a laptop and a bunch of letters from a discount store.
No longer worried or caring, I enter a McDonald's to see none other than New York's finest, the men in blue: the Traffic Police.
Working hard, or hardly working.
I'm not sure if it's a crime to add letters to a sign, or if this is even the traffic cops' jurisdiction, so I just plod right up to the sign, make my edits, and walk out.
"This sign should stir up public opinion!"
I hear the Traffic Police call after me as I run out the door and into the streets. I'm not done with you yet, New York.
My goal is to prank the restroom in the heart of New York: the Chinatown Burger King. This will be Ground Zero for my prank, the defining moment of my three days in the Big Snapple.
I cut through the air-conditioned Citigroup Center to get to the subway. "While I'm here, I might as well enjoy myself," I think aloud, stopping by their restroom to wipe the sweat from my berries.
By this point, I needed some freshmaking.
Emerging from the subway into the horrible humidity, I grab a beer from a corner grocery store, flag down a cabbie and head south on Broadway. With scuffed balls, cramped cheeks and a $4 beer, I feel like a dejected Tiger Woods. I blabber instructions to the taxi driver, but he has no idea what language I'm speaking, just doing his best to drive fast.
Now imagine what New York looks like on drugs.
I pay the man and jump out of the cab. Then I punch myself in the sack for luck, and to toughen myself for the task at hand. I turn toward the Burger King, and my heart skips a beat. "Not again!" I moan. The fuzz.
It's like they knew I was going to be there.
I grit my teeth, turn up Neil Diamond's "Coming to America" in my headphones, and limp into the joint. I order a small Dr. Pepper and have a seat next to the bathroom.
"Not again," I say again, looking at the sign.
Curse you New Yorkers, and your unprankable restroom signs!
The friggin' bathroom is labeled RESTROOM. What the Harris is this world coming to if everything is unicyclesex?
Angrily, I whip open my backpack while a nearby Brazillian youth looks at me as if I'm Shakira without boobs. I spread tape on the poster, nod at my new friend and slap it against the mirror (the poster, that is).
At the Chinatown Burger King, it works on so many levels.
The Women's Restroom Prank started with a missing "W," and ends with me running out of a Chinatown Burger King, taking a picture with one hand and holding my slappers with the other, trying to avoid the police.
In a weird way, I guess that original sign was an OMEN. Pranking it was what got me here in the first place.
I guess sometimes the signs are easier to read than we think.
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