Between college and law school, I worked at a Department of Veterans’ Affairs clinic as a file clerk/receptionist for the Chief Medical Officer of the facility. (I got to take the Oath to preserve, protect & defend the Constitution. That was pretty cool.)
One day, a very old fellow poked his head into our suite. (I suspect he’d seen my then-girlfriend, who worked in the suite with me and was stunningly gorgeous). He turned out to be a World War I veteran (yes, that’s WWI, not WWII). It said so right in the database.
With a completely straight face but a twinkle in his eye, he explained that he wanted to make a complaint about the toilets. It seemed the water level in the bowl was too high, because the head of his penis got wet when he sat down.
One of my coworkers took the complaint down and we promised to look into it. The girls were talking about this episode for a week.
I’m guessing this is a WWI-era joke played on countless military nurses during that war and since. Any of our military readers recognize it?
Anyway, my hat’s off to that nameless gent. At the time, I counted myself privileged to have met a veteran of the Great War. I still do.
The same sort of complaint as beefing that the military let the nurses’ dress hems rise too high, because as the official goose-bump inspector, you were seeing too many goose-bumps. Goose Bump inspector, of course, gave you a mandate to look at those legs.