Get Schooled.

This post is recommended for those with strong stomachs and the male version of the human race. The author of this post is NOT responsible for any physical or mental harm that results in reading the following wall of text. Reader discretion is advised. Thank you.

I’ve realized that something is wrong. Something isn’t normal. I’m not sleeping as deeply as I used to. I don’t dream as wild as I used to. I don’t remember as well as I used to. I don’t walk as fast as I use to. An old lady beat me up the A-building stairs today which quickly erased any belief in my advanced walking abilities (I am a member of Facebook’s prestigious group, “I Want To Punch Slow Walking People In The Back Of The Head”). I’m just not the way I was. Because of these unnatural occurrences, I have been unable to provide my modest audience (many thanks to you!) with another post. As a way to extend the life of this blog and simply because it’s hilarious, I share with you another story. This highly educational and enlightening story offers a lesson in physics, bathroom etiquette, biology, and programming. This story is not my original work. I read it a couple of years ago and recreated it to my best ability. The narrator is in fact, not me (however we share a similar educational background and knowledge of bathroom etiquette). Oh, and don’t worry about me. Time heals all wounds, right?

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, id had been over forty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstart 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 pick up an order for my fiancée. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large 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 0 through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:

0. Occupied
1. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to the occupied one.
2. Poo on the seat.
3. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
4. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou 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 the 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 saw 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 it 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 will all my might. I was rewarded with a far of colossal magnitude – a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed 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 be a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell had 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 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 onto 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 dispense 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 plot and splash from next door, followed by a 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.