All in all, it hadn' t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning
computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething
cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over
hours since I' d last taken a dump. I' d tried to jumpstart the
process, beginning my day with a bowl fiber cereal,
following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a 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, Ihad to stop at the mall to pick up an order
for my fiancee. I completed this task, and as Iwas walking past the stores on my way backto the
car, Unoticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Gol" This was prophetic, for my colon
informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about
I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have
numbered o through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:
l. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it' s next to the occupied one.
2. Poo on seat.
3. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
ril. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of
Clearly, it had to be Stall #1. I trudged back, entered, dropped tron and
sat down. I' m normally a fairly Shameful Shatter. Twasn' t happy about being
next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.
Iwas 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. Chat of
Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on Mr. Shatter was
blathering to Mrs. Shatter about the shatty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting
for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, 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 mapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.
Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamelessness. I no longer
care d. I gripped the toilet pap er 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 tom off a wall.
The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated tone, not
unlike someone firing up a Harley. Emanated to hit the resonance frequency
of the stall, and it shook gently.
Cance my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became
apparent) 1) The 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 underlie stall and began
choking my poop -mate. This initial "herald" fart had
ended his conversation in .
Oh my Go d," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of
choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn' t me (cough, gag), you could hear
Now there was no stopping me. Iaughed for all I was worth. I could swear
that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and
blasts, Iwas 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,
alli 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... horible... throw up...
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 abuse of the toilet was winding
down, Iheard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear
words and gags. My poopchute 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. Iheard a flush, a
fumbling with the lo ck, and then the stall do or was thrown open. I heard him
running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.
I / 06( Wed) 065407 No. 13457460
After a considerable amount of paperwork, Igot 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 ad to a floor flooded with filth.
As Lleft, Balanced into the 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. Buti saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has
managed to transfer my Shamelessness to my anonymous poopchute. Ithink itll be a long time before
he can bring poop in public -- andl doubt hell ever again answer his cell phone in the loo.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in theb athro om.