Here's my fun story for the day:
It is 4PM. I have just wrapped up a class where I have been lecturing for two hours. I am in need of, shall we say, a porcelain vacation.
I go in the men's room, normally my exclusive province, as I am the only guy who works in my office. But apparently a couple of my students have same general idea, and the air is filled with the noises of dying elephants and tortured cats, such that one might find in a men's room occupied by 60 year old Steelworkers.
My phone rings.
Being in the men's room, and the auditory company that I am, I decline to answer. In fact, I don't even look at my phone. This is polite behavior, I think. I press the "ignore call" button.
Next, just as I am sitting down on the stall to which I am accustomed, my students finally having removed themselves and the air having been freshened, I get a text message. I have to pay for Text Messages. $.25. Every time my phone makes that noise a vein in my forehead throbs. And the only people I know who send them are people I don't want to deal with, particularly while I am occupied as I was at that moment. Instead, I content myself with "Information Week", a periodical seemingly designed for my task at hand in every possible way.
And then, I hear it, HIM. I have previously used such words as Penis Breath and Dickhole to describe him. The bastard next door. He is calling my name. Which means that he has somehow slithered from his office and into mine. I hear him repeat his cry several times, drawing nearer my Second Office.
Surely, I think, he will have the decency to wait for me to flush, zip my pants, and attend to my ablutions.
He does not.
"My server is down. You didn't pick up when I called or answer my E-mail, so I texted you and I need you right now." I must point out, after the fact, that my telephone indicates that these events occurred over the course of slightly more than three minutes.
As the audience of SF is almost entirely male, I am sure you are all familiar with the code of the men's room, which consists of using the farthest stall from every occupied one, and never, ever, ever uttering anything more than a relieved grunt.
I was of course mortified.
He continued, even as I noisily indicated that perhaps he had caught me at a bad moment. He told me that none of his workstations could get on the internet or access his shared files, and that it must have crashed.
At that point, I flushed.
I waited a while longer in my stall, mostly because none of my worst social anxiety nightmares had ever prepared me for this. As I washed my hands, he continued yammering about his important business that had been disrupted by this unplanned outage, and how he is paying me a fortune to make his server run properly.
I walked to the nearest PC, loaded mstsc.exe and found that his server, whatever state it had been in, was working fine. I brought up the event logs. I found that my faithful bathroom companion (I mean, besides "Information Week") had hired someone to work on his web site, and that this person had decided to reboot this server without informing anyone he was so much as planning to do so, and that furthermore, this person was working through my faithful bathroom companion's login.
My question is, do I bill him for four or eight hours for a bathroom consultation?