All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic,
a malfunctioning computer, incompetent co-workers and
a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage.
But more importantly for this story, it had been over
forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd
tried to jump start the process, beginning my day
with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following
it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden
lunch at Taco Bell.
As I was returning home from work, my insides let me
know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional
tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas,
I had to stop at the mall to go shopping. I completed
this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my
way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming,
"Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon
informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet,
squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go.
I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls,
which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:
1.Occupied.
2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's
next to the occupied one.
3.Poo on seat.
4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid
splattered on seat.
5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky
object near base of toilet.
Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered,
dropped trousers and sat down. I'm normally a fairly shameful
shitter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall,
but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden
the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed
by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the
ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the
voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of
shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation
went on and on.
Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day
he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to
finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier
and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was
too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no
uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would
be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame shamefulness.
I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one
hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and
pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal
magnitude - a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very
wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall.
The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM
tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the
resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.
Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things
became apparent: (1) the next-door conversation had ceased;
(2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more
to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch
stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul
miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my
poop-mate.
This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds
of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you
could hear that (gag)??"
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth.
I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts,
splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off
the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed
against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the
damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet
out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now,
all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as
he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of
conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony:
"Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth... not...
make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed
by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and
wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure
abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and
splash from next door, followed by string of swear words
and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became
deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering
what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my
behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must
have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the
lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out
of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. After a considerable
amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad
for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that
flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that
unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.
As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained
in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out
and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will
never know.
I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around
for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my
supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my shamefulness to my
anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring
himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his
cell phone in the loo. And this, my friends, is why you should never
talk on your phone in the bathroom.
I've heard better poo stories but that one is pretty good!