All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning anesthesia machine, incompetent co-workers, and a sore back all conspired to turn me into a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly (for this story, anyway), it had also been 48 hours since I had last taken a dump.
I'd tried to jump start the process, beginning the day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing cereal, and following it with six cups of coffe at work. This was followed up with a refried bean-laden luch at Taco Bell.
As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumblings and the occasional emission of tiny farts that BIG THINGS would be happening soon.
Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up a few last-minute gifts for my family. I completed these brief tasks and was walking past the stores returning to my car in the parking lot, when I noticed a rather large banner that proclaimed, "Everything Must Go!"
I found this to be fairly prophetic, for my colon informed me with a violent cramp that everything was indeed about to go. I proceeded forthwith to the mall restrooms.
Upon arrival in the men's room, I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 - 5 for your convenience:
Number 1: Occupied
Number 2: Clean, but Bathroom Protocol prohibits it's use, as it resides next to the occupied one
Number 3: Poo on the seat
Number 4: Poo and toilet paper in the bowl, and an unidentifiable liquid on the seat
Number 5: No stall door, no toilet paper, and an unidentifiable sticky object near the base of the toilet
Clearly, only stall number 2 would be available for use. So I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. Normally, I'm a fairly Shameful Shltter. I wasn't happy about being in a stall next to an occupied one, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when the sweet sounds of Beethoven (his Ninth Symphony, I believe) came from next door, followed by the sounds of fumbling and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As was usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 18 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation dragged on endlessly. Mr. Shltter was blathering to Mrs. Shltter about the shltty day he had had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on and on, I began to become extremely angry, for I, too, was starting to have a crappy day, except I was too polite to yak about it in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get things moving immediately, my day was about to become even crappier.
Finally, my anger reached a point where it overpowered my Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the opposite 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 bedsheet in half and the sound that plywood makes when it's being torn off of a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily-modulated low RPM tone, not unlike the sound of someone firing up a Harley. After a full 2 seconds, I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and the walls shook gently.
Once my a$s cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became readily apparent:
1: The next-door conversation had ceased,
2: My colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come (a LOT 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 it's way underneath the stall and began choking my poop-mate. The initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation mid-sentence.
"Oh, my God!" I heard him utter, followed by suppressed gagging sounds, and then, "No, honey, that wasn't me*cogh gag cough*. You could hear that?!"
Now there was no stopping me.
I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacaphony of squirts, splashes, poots and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of crap inside me was incredible. It sprayed against the sides of the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poo had actually managaed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the sides of the toilet to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door, I could hear my poo-mate 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....threw up in my mouth....might not....make it....tell kids....love them....Oh God....", followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and coughing.
Alas, it is evidently very difficult to hold on to a cell phone and wipe your backside off at the same time. Just as my high-pressured abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and a splash from next door, followed by some swear words and more retching noises. My poop-mate had dropped his cell phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the bathroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks of undigested bean burrito plopping noisily into the thickened water. That must have been the final straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the sound of the stall door being violently thrown open. I heard him sprinting out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and turned around in order to inspect the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who would 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 covered in filth.
As I left, I glanced into stall number 1. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty, unwashed hands? Only he knows.
I exited the bathroom after washing my hands. I was momentarily proud...Shameless, looking around for a face that was glaring at me. ButI saw no one. I suspect that my supernatural elimination has somehow managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it will be a LONG time before he can bring himself to poop in public - and I doubt that he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the toilet.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.
Will
I'd tried to jump start the process, beginning the day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing cereal, and following it with six cups of coffe at work. This was followed up with a refried bean-laden luch at Taco Bell.
As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumblings and the occasional emission of tiny farts that BIG THINGS would be happening soon.
Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up a few last-minute gifts for my family. I completed these brief tasks and was walking past the stores returning to my car in the parking lot, when I noticed a rather large banner that proclaimed, "Everything Must Go!"
I found this to be fairly prophetic, for my colon informed me with a violent cramp that everything was indeed about to go. I proceeded forthwith to the mall restrooms.
Upon arrival in the men's room, I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 - 5 for your convenience:
Number 1: Occupied
Number 2: Clean, but Bathroom Protocol prohibits it's use, as it resides next to the occupied one
Number 3: Poo on the seat
Number 4: Poo and toilet paper in the bowl, and an unidentifiable liquid on the seat
Number 5: No stall door, no toilet paper, and an unidentifiable sticky object near the base of the toilet
Clearly, only stall number 2 would be available for use. So I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. Normally, I'm a fairly Shameful Shltter. I wasn't happy about being in a stall next to an occupied one, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to bear down when the sweet sounds of Beethoven (his Ninth Symphony, I believe) came from next door, followed by the sounds of fumbling and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As was usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 18 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation dragged on endlessly. Mr. Shltter was blathering to Mrs. Shltter about the shltty day he had had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on and on, I began to become extremely angry, for I, too, was starting to have a crappy day, except I was too polite to yak about it in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get things moving immediately, my day was about to become even crappier.
Finally, my anger reached a point where it overpowered my Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the opposite 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 bedsheet in half and the sound that plywood makes when it's being torn off of a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily-modulated low RPM tone, not unlike the sound of someone firing up a Harley. After a full 2 seconds, I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and the walls shook gently.
Once my a$s cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became readily apparent:
1: The next-door conversation had ceased,
2: My colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come (a LOT 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 it's way underneath the stall and began choking my poop-mate. The initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation mid-sentence.
"Oh, my God!" I heard him utter, followed by suppressed gagging sounds, and then, "No, honey, that wasn't me*cogh gag cough*. You could hear that?!"
Now there was no stopping me.
I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacaphony of squirts, splashes, poots and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of crap inside me was incredible. It sprayed against the sides of the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poo had actually managaed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the sides of the toilet to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door, I could hear my poo-mate 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....threw up in my mouth....might not....make it....tell kids....love them....Oh God....", followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and coughing.
Alas, it is evidently very difficult to hold on to a cell phone and wipe your backside off at the same time. Just as my high-pressured abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and a splash from next door, followed by some swear words and more retching noises. My poop-mate had dropped his cell phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the bathroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks of undigested bean burrito plopping noisily into the thickened water. That must have been the final straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the sound of the stall door being violently thrown open. I heard him sprinting out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and turned around in order to inspect the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who would 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 covered in filth.
As I left, I glanced into stall number 1. Nothing remained in the bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty, unwashed hands? Only he knows.
I exited the bathroom after washing my hands. I was momentarily proud...Shameless, looking around for a face that was glaring at me. ButI saw no one. I suspect that my supernatural elimination has somehow managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it will be a LONG time before he can bring himself to poop in public - and I doubt that he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the toilet.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.
Will
