A funny thing happened to me at work the other day, and I
wanted to write it up as sort of a guide on how to take a dump in public. You see, most people (I'm NOT including
myself) apparently dream of having a feces fight in the bathroom, but never muster up the courage to actually do it in
their own homes. Thus, at least once in their life, they'll find a nice public restroom to unleash colonic
abomination for all the subsequent patrons to enjoy.
Thanks... no, really...
I beheld the worst possible example of this a couple of months
ago when I stopped at my favorite near-work convenience store, Market Center, to grab some red jolly ranchers and a pack of condoms.
I needed to go wee wee, so I made a B-line for the bathroom, only to find that the Apocalypse of Revelation had occurred within.
The smell of fresh baby shit hit me first, (anyone with kids
will know what I'm talking about), and so distracted was I, that I almost stepped right in a brown glob of it on the
floor. Would've served me right for not checking the floor for SHIT- because one should always do so. Thankfully,
my catlike reflexes and speed kicked in just as my foot descended, and I did a ninja flip over the steaming pile of poo to
land safely on the other side.
Ah, but that was only a taste of the horrors this restroom
had in store for me, as there were crapmines all over the place. I was surrounded, and- for a moment- I hallucinated
that the riotous clumps of defecation were actually closing in on me.
"STAY BACK, GOD DAMMIT!!!" I screamed, but the shit ignored
me, and I was greeted instead by a childlike whimper from somewhere close.
Now, Market center has a fairly large bathroom, but it's only
one urinal and one wall-surrounded toilet stall. The walls of said stall begin about a foot and a half off the ground,
so you can see if someone is in there... and someone was.
After doubling over in a preempted vomit reflex, I noticed
a pair of size four-and-a-half tennis shoes shuffling back and forth within the stall. It was a kid, obviously, but
what caught my attention was that his blue jean were around his ankles, along with a befouled pair of tighty whities.
Thankfully, I couldn't see anything else, but the sheer semantics of what had happened were mind-blowing.
Given the shit all over the floor, the kid must've pulled
his pants down AS he was running into the bathroom, thus leaving a trail from the door to the stall. Fair enough, but
said trail wasn't a straight line. No, it was a figure eight of crap blossoms placed at key points to create a kind
of butt mud crop circle.
I was fascinated, and my brain went to work recreating the
crime scene, thus ascertaining that- after he'd crossed the threshold and let loose- he must've run in circles, as if fleeing
from the exiting fecal matter itself.
Incredible...
Only the mind of a child could concoct such a solution, as
it's almost impossible for a bipedal mammal to outrun its own shit. Admittedly, it might have worked had he been
dropping bombs, but this was one of those watery, diarrhea type loads that flow instead of plop, and not even The Flash
could've pulled it off in a confined space with his pants around his ankles.
I went on to theorize that the kid had come to realize
the same thing, then fleeing into the stall in an attempt to reach the safety of the toilet. Alas, he was too late, because-
from what I could see beneath the wall- his little shins were lacquered in what looked like melted brown ice-cream, his
underwear and blue jeans saturated beyond the point of salvage. Even his miniature Nike's were covered, and my heart
went out to him.
I don't know how old that kid was, but I'm willing to bet that
I'd walked in just as he was enduring the very event that psychiatrists will cite when he becomes a serial killer in
twenty years.
The horror... The horror...
I had no idea what to do. He knew I knew he was there, for
I could hear him whimpering softly, yet, the protocol in a situation like that was so alien to me, that I found myself
in unfamiliar territory. Should I offer assistance? Should I try to sooth him? Should I shit my own pants
to make him feel better? A barrage of possibilities ran through my mind as I stood there amidst the holocaust, and then
I remembered I had to pee.
Tiptoeing through the minefield so that I could get to the urinal,
I unzipped and did my business, then almost loosing it as a mental picture of some kid running from his own ass, leapt
into my brain. I had to bite the fleshy part of my free hand between the thumb and forefinger to keep from laughing,
and the stifled abdominal convulsions caused me to pee all over the wall.
Gross... But, Hey!!! A few misfired-fired
blasts of urine weren't gonna make a difference in that bathroom!
Once I was done, I zipped up and made for the door, guilt
replacing humor. I felt like I was abandoning a tender youth in supreme need of adult advice, but the smell was LITERALLY
about to make me pass out, and I was loathe to risk loosing consciousness amidst so much shit. Can you imagine if someone
walked in to find me- a grown man- snoring softly on a bed of defecation with a prepubescent child mere feet
away with his shit covered pants around his ankles?
No thanks, I'm not about to add Bukaki slash Pedophilia
to my list of federally UNsanctioned activities.
Using my ninja skills to evade the clumps of shit that suddenly
appeared to be advancing again, I exited the door and made my way to the front counter, only then risking a deep breath.
The air in the main part of the store seemed sweeter than any I've smelled before or since.
The Market Center clerk, (a not entirely unattractive woman
in her thirties), took notice as I put my hands on the counter and let out a great sigh.
Semi-hot Clerk: "Did you have gas?"
Mike: "What?!? NO!!! I just had to pee!
What are you accusing me of?"
Semi-hot Clerk: "Huh? I was just asking if you got gas?
You know, like, for a car?"
I laughed.
Mike: "No, I didn't get any gas. I just came in for-
ya know what? It doesn't matter. I changed my mind."
For a moment, she just stared back at me. And then...
Semi-hot clerk: "Can I help you, sir?"
Mike: (trying to compose myself): "Nope, I think I'm gonna
be fine after some therapy.... Look, I know this probably isn't in your job description, but there's this kid in the
bathroom that had an accident, and if you could find his mommy, I'm sure-"
Before I could finish my sentence, the bathroom door flew
open, and this blond haired hobbit no more than four feet tall came sprinting past us. Thankfully, his blue jeans were back
in place, but the seat of his pants was brown instead of blue, and his tennis shoes left a trail of crapprints that the clerk
couldn't see from behind the counter.
"Oh nooooo..." the clerk moaned empathetically, "Was
that him? Was that the kid that had the accident? He must be so embarrassed... Poor little boy." she added.
'Poor semi-hot clerk', I thought...
"Was it bad?" she went on, "Do I need to go in there and tidy
up a bit?"
"Uh, yeah," I replied, "But just a bit. See ya!"
I hightailed it outta there, strangely feeling like I was
somehow responsible for the life-altering trauma that chick would have to endure once she walked into the men's bathroom.
I jogged to my car and cranked the engine, only to see a round little face peering back at me from a mini-van parked over
by the gas pumps some forty feet away. His mother was FREAKING OUT behind the wheel, her shadowed silhouette undulating
this way and that as the boy merely sat listless and stared.
Our eyes met, and- I SWEAR TO GOD- the look on his face seemed
to echo the smallest measure of thanks. Though he'd never seen my face, (anymore than I'd seen his), he somehow
knew I'd been the one in the bathroom with him, and perhaps he was grateful that I didn't laugh.
Of course, I laughed my ass off on the way home, but I've
never spoken nor written about the event until just now. Ironically, that's not the story I mean to tell
in this particular installment, (which deals with an incident from few days ago), but the telling reminded me of yet another
shit debauchery that happened early in my career with the company I work for now, so I'm gonna further postpone the "meat"
of the tale to give a second precursor.
Okay, so it was three years ago, and I was working in
middle-management for a certain client of ours that I won't mention by name here. Those from work that
read my site will know EXACTLY which client I'm talking about, but- just in case some of you are stupid- lemme' clarify by
saying that said client sold toys and shit from a catalog.
Follow me, fuckheads? (and you know who you are)
I supervised a team of about thirty people that season, and
one of those was a guy who we're gonna call "Ralph". Given what I'm about to impart, I can't BELIEVE I don't
remember his real name, but then, I get kicked in the head a lot, and Ralph will do just fine. He was a gangly
fellow, dark of hair and rather plain looking; his better-than-average intelligence undermined by a nervousness I usually
see in frat boys I'm about to beat the fuck out of.
Anywho, he comes twitching up to my cubicle wall, and- addressing
me as "Mister Mike"- proceeds to request an audience. I believe in an open-door-policy style of management,
so I invited him to come in and sit down. He did so.
"Mister Mike," Ralph began, "I know I'm only a temp here,
and I know I've missed a lot of work, but I really need to go home."
Sensing his urgency, I forsook my normal "You're not going
anywhere, bitch!" demeanor, and instead played the empathetic boss card.
"No problem, Ralph. You sick or something?"
"Yes!" Ralph stammered, "I mean, no. I mean, nothing
more than usual. Can I tell you something?"
"Yeah, man. Shoot!"
As soon as I said that, I caught the faintest aroma of shit-
perhaps too faint for normal people to detect. You see, my mother has an almost preternatural sense of smell, and I
apparently inherited it from her, which is why I can't tolerate people who stink. Ralph didn't usually stink in the
body odor sense of the word, so I figured he'd merely farted.
No big deal.
"I was born with a certain condition," he explained, "which
is kind of like epilepsy, except that I don't have seizures or anything like that. I take medicine for it, and I don't
want you to think that I can't do my job, but sometimes I lose control of..."
That's the last part of his opening diatribe that I can recall.
Most people that offer excuses for shirking a day's work, perpetually spout the same brand of contrived bullshit, (myself
included, though I'm far more original). Thus, upon hearing what I thought would be another lame cop out, I immediately
went into to zombie mode... which is why I was so easily and completely distracted by the object creeping within Ralph's
left pants leg.
The movement caught my eye first, something round and
solid inching slowly down along his khakis, and ever onwards towards the top of his black Payless loafer. Whatever
it was, it looked alive, and I glanced up at him, then back to the descending yet concealed alien, and then up again once
more- desperately trying to warn him as nonchalantly as I could.
I remember thinking, "Can't you feel that?!?
There's something alive in your pants!!!"
But I said nothing; chiefly because Ralph was impassionedly
blabbering on and on about a medical condition that I'd subconsciously deemed far less interesting than the creature
in his khakis.
What is that thing? What does it want? Can
I fight it, if and when it comes for my own pants leg?!?
Ralph was talking all this time, but- I shit you not, (pardon
the impending pun)- I cannot remember a word he said. I was totally enthralled, thus employing years of martial arts
bolstered peripheral vision to observe this phenomena without appearing to do so.
It reached the bottom hem of his khakis and emerged, and only
then did I look directly at it, there to behold a snowball-sized globe of brown fecal matter resting on the instep of
Ralph's left Payless loafer.
"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!!!" I screamed in my
mind, "HE SHIT HIMSELF!!! HE SHIT HIMSELF, AND THAT SHIT IS NOW IN MY CUBICLE!!!"
Of course, it wasn't in my cubicle yet. It was still
positioned on the instep of Ralph's foot. But any movement on his part would cause it to roll over and down to the floor,
and I was so befuddled by the possibility of such, (and by the newly revisited smell), that I became paralyzed. No kidding,
I couldn't move or speak. I just sat there, my eyes locked to the shitball, my mouth agape.
I have no doubt that my face contorted in some shocked display
of horror, yet Ralph didn't seem to notice, (neither my expression, nor the shit on his left foot), and my ears finally returned
to the low drum of his voice.
"...and that's why I hope you'll understand, Mister Mike.
I wouldn't leave work for anything else, and all I need is to go home and change clothes so that nobody notices."
"SO THAT NOBODY NOTICES?!?" I gasped, "MOTHERFUCKER, YOU'VE
GOT A BALL OF SHIT ON YOUR SHOE!!! HOW THE FUCK IS NOBODY GONNA NOTICE?!?"
I didn't actually say that, but that's what I was thinking.
"Um, Ralph? I don't care if you go. I certainly
won't count it against you. But, what do you think we should do about-"
Before I could finish, Ralph leapt up and lurched at
me, then grabbling my hand to shake it furiously.
"Thank you, Mister Mike! Thank you sooo much!"
Meanwhile, the act of Ralph standing up had dislodged the
shit ball, and it rolled onto the floor. As if by ominous design, Ralph turned and made to exit my cubicle.
"I'm just gonna grab my stuff, Mister Mike!"
"No Ralph, wait!"
But it was too late, Ralph stepped right in his own shit,
thus squishing it into the carpet and sending little chunks of it in every direction. AMAZINGLY, Ralph still didn't
realize the danger, and he briskly jogged back to his desk some twenty yards away, leaving a one-footed trail of
crapprints behind him.
I couldn't believe this was actually happening.
A couple of seconds later, Ralph flew by me in the opposite
direction, offering a happy wave and another "Thanks, Mister Mike!" before traipsing through the lobby and leaving out the
front door. Thankfully, most of the shit had come off during his initial run back to his desk, so the crapprints only
went one way.
Several minutes passed with me just sitting there in my chair,
too stunned to move. My eyes were locked to the shit trail leading out of my cubicle, and since said cubicle is surrounded
by five foot walls, I was trapped. I probably would've sat there all day, were it not for the scream that echoed up
from somewhere on the floor. There was another, and then a collection of gasps as, one by one, the other members of
my team became aware of the shit trail.
Revulsion and panic began to sweep through my area of the
building, and since I was the undisputed leader, I did what I knew I must.
* beep beep, beep, beep, beep *... * rinnnnnng
*... * rinnnnnng *... * click * "Maintenance, this is Nancy."
"Nancy!" I gasped into the phone, "This is Mike! I need
your help! Please, I'm scared!"
"Quit fooling around, Mike," her gravelly voice replied, "I'm
busy."
"No! You don't understand! I'm trapped
in my cubicle, and it's horrible! My team is freaking out!"
"I'm not falling for it, Mike... Jesus, man! You
know how much shit I've got to do today?"
"Yes! I know EXACTLY how much shit you've got to do
today! I'M LOOKING RIGHT AT IT!!! Please! I'm begging you! Just come to my cubicle!"
"Alright, alright, but you'd better not be jerking me around!"
* click * She hung up, and I put the phone down only
to wait for what seemed like an eternity, various members of my crew coming up to inform me of what I already knew.
Anonymous Rep: "Hey Mike, you know there's shit on the floor?"
Mike: "No, no! Don't speak of it! Get back to
your desk!"
Finally, Nancy appeared on my left, thus folding her arms
on the top of my cubical wall. From where she was standing, she couldn't yet see the shit trail.
"Alright, Mike. What's the joke?"
To give you a visual, Nancy was a rough and tumble kinda gal
in her forties. She's pure mountain folk, with a tan, leathery face and a voice deepened by decades of cigarette spoke.
Her hair was dyed blond, and she usually wore men's clothes. I liked her immensely, and mostly because she didn't take
shit off anybody, (again, pardon the pun).
I was still wide-eyed and sitting impotently in my chair,
my fingers digging into the arm rests.
"Nancy," I whispered, "As slowly as you can, I want you to
walk around to the front of my cubicle. BUT BE CAREFUL!!!" I wailed as she started to move, "There's shit all over the
floor, and you mustn't step in it.... you mustn't, anger it."
Nancy laughed but did as I bade her, then coming to an abrupt
halt as she rounded the corner of my cubicle. Her face contorted in a baby's scowl, her head panning left to right to
take in the twenty yard shit trail in its entirety.
"Somebody crap 'emselves?"
"That's putting it mildly!" I sneered, "How can you be so
calm?"
"It's just shit, Mike. It ain't gonna jump up and bite
ya."
"No! I think I saw it move!"
"Whatever..." Nancy sighed, then turning to leave.
I immediately called after her.
"Wait! Where are you going?"
"I'm going to get something to clean it up with."
"No!" I pleaded, "Don't leave me alone with it!"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Nancy hissed, then stomping around
with expertly placed steps to enter my cubicle and yank me up by the arm, "You get out there right now and talk to your people!
Half of 'em aren't even working, they're just standing around like there's a dead body on the floor!"
"No, don't!" I cried, but Nancy literally manhandled me out
of the cubicle, at which time I did some kind of high-stepping crazy legs maneuver that brought me safely across the shit
trail unsullied.
Nancy let me go as soon as we were both clear.
"Always joking around," she chuckled, "That's my Mike."
"Yeah, I was just joking. Ha ha! That was funny,
huh? Me acting like I was trapped and stuff, right? Right?"
Nancy turned once more and made for the maintenance closet.
"Be back in a minute. Get your people back to work!"
Even though she wasn't my boss, I tried to do what Nancy wanted,
I tried to get my team back on task. But, in the end, the smell was just too sickening, and after telling half my department
to take a fifteen minute break, I went to lunch.
The floor was spick and span clean when I returned TWO HOURS
later, and since everybody on my team had already gone back to doing whatever the hell it was they did for me, I decided to
go home early...
Okay! You might think I'd be tired of writing about
shit by now, but I haven't even gotten to my original story yet, so stay with me just a little while longer.
Four days ago, I decided to eat lunch at Taco Bell on Hendersonville
road, and since I was particularly hungry, I ordered three of those "South Western" beef Chalupas with sour cream and all
the fixin's. Now, I have a freakishly strong stomach, (as I've said before, I used to eat stuff for money back in college),
but I usually don't eat Mexican food because it's spicy, and spicy stuff gives me the hiccups. Nevertheless, I put on
the hot sauce and chowed down.
An hour or so later, I began to feel the shit demons stirring,
and I went off towards the larger of my company's two bathrooms. Said bathroom has two stalls and two urinals, the smaller
having one stall and two urinals. For the mathematically challenged, that's three stalls and four urinals for some SEVEN
HUNDRED freaking employees, so there are times when the rankness of those lavatories transcends foul, and reaches the
level of "Satan's outhouse".
Don't get me wrong, our maintenance staff does
a good job keeping things clean, but there's only so much air in a twenty by thirty foot room, and I don't think the
ventilation fans work most of the time.
Anyway, as soon as I opened the first of the two doors, (the
"large" bathroom has an outer door and an inner door), I was bombarded by the aroma of dead skunk carcass roasting over a
McDonald's grease pit. It was, by far, one of the worst things I'd ever smelled, and I hadn't even entered the bathroom
proper yet. Someone had unleashed a level ten gut grenade in one of the toilets, and I would've conceded their superiority
and fled had I not had to take a dump so bad.
Holding my breath, I went through the second door to find
the bathroom empty, even though the stench was impossibly stronger within.
"Dear God..." I whispered, then entering the nearest stall
to begin my pre-dump sanitary ritual.
Said ritual consists of me wiping the seat with toilet paper,
then flushing it, then putting down a seat protector, then using more toilet paper to strategically place strips of it
on top to ensure NO part of my ass touches the fecal throne.
Some might think this ritual is anal retentive, but, would
YOU wanna take a dump after seven hundred other strangers? I think not.
Regardless, my hands were shaking from the effects of the
natural nerve gas, and I barely got my pants down before seven or eight liters of South American crap came rocketing out of
the holiest of holes. The sheer relief of it was nothing short of orgasmic, though the sensation was thwarted by the
ever-present cloud of pollution the previous shitter had left behind.
It was so bad that I couldn't even smell my own contribution,
and I was rocking back and forth to get it over with as quickly as possible.
And then, I heard the door open.
Oh no, I thought, They're gonna think
it was me!
There was no escape. Even if I pinched it off and hightailed
it outta there, I would still have to pass the newly arrived patron on my way to freedom. I had no choice but to wait
it out.
The heavy footsteps from beyond stopped abruptly, and then I
heard an older man's voice gasp, "Dear God..."
Yeah, that's what I said, I thought,
then bursting into loud and uncontrollable laughter. I just couldn't help it. The horror of the situation was
beyond regret, and- since I'd resigned myself to being blamed- I made no attempt to conceal my amusement.
Obviously, the other guy heard me laughing, and he cursed
under his breath before taking the stall beside mine.
Silence followed, and we sat there side by side as two faceless
comrades separated only by a thin wall of steel. Finally, I heard him gasp and exhale, as if he'd been holding his breath.
"Jesus Christ, man!" he coughed, "How 'bout a mercy
flush?!?"
I completely lost my shit.
"BWAHA HA HA HA HA HA!!!"
I laughed so hard that an additional eight or so liters of
crap nearly propelled me off the toilet seat. He started laughing too, and the pair of us spent the next minute howling
and crapping in some perverse form of male bonding.
At last, I settled down enough to speak.
"You're not gonna believe this, man," I called over, "But
it wasn't me!"
"Yeah, sure!" came the reply, "Just gimme' the god damn mercy
flush!"
"BWAHA HA HA HA HA HA!!! Stop it!" * gasp * snort *
"You're killing me!"
And the shared fanfare began anew. I flushed the toilet
just for good measure, which set us off again, and then the hilarity died down to an uncomfortable silence. I've never
been in a situation so simultaneously funny and awkward.
With my entire intestinal tract empty, I wiped, flushed again,
and ran for the door, then calling back, "God be with you!", before escaping into the sweet smelling safety of the common
area. I didn't even wash my hands, and the last thing I heard was him bursting into laugher once again....
I'm laughing so hard right now, that I don't think I can ACTUALLY
give the rules of bathroom etiquette I started out to impart. How 'bout we tackle that one tomorrow, eh boys and girls?
For now, I have to go take another dump...
