Pontius Pilate


I wonder if a compulsive handwasher ever starts out just liking the feel of warm water on his hands on a cold day and resolves to do it all the time. I’ve claimed in the past that the reason I go the washroom twenty times a day isn’t that I really have to go; it’s simply a coverup for my compulsive handwashing. In fact, I really do go to the washroom twenty times a day because I really do have to go. I mentioned to my boss yesterday that if he hears me crinkling in the future, it’s because I’ve said the hell with it and started wearing adult diapers so I can get some work done.

One of my co-workers, on the other hand, says he really does go to the washroom twenty times a day because he really is a compulsive handwasher, although he doesn’t do through the charade of pretending to urinate. He says it’s because he can’t stand the feeling of grime on his hands. It’s like nails on a chalkboard to him. I can relate. For me, the feeling of chalk on my hands is worse than the sound of nails on a chalkboard. It’s what holds me back from being an Olympic powerlifter. Or a teacher. Or teaching Olympic powerlifting.

In a recent post on Donald Trumps’s appearance on Howie Mandel’s game show Deal or No Deal, Mark Evanier says, “It was […] kind of funny to see television’s two biggest germophobes — Mandel and Trump — on the same stage, grudgingly hugging the contestant.” When you think about it, though, it’s not so unlikely to see Mandel and Trump sharing a stage. Mandel won’t shake anyone else’s hand, opting to give props by bumping fists instead. But with Trump, he knows that his compulsively washed hand may safely be shaken.

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