Toilet Story

All in all, it hasn't been a good day. Bad traffic, malfunctioning computer, overly long tolerance break, incompitent coworkers and a perpetually sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over 48 hours since I'd last taken a dump. I had tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with with bowl of bowel-cleansing fibre cereal, following it with six cups of coffee throughout the day, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell, a place I had sworn to never enter again as long as I live, but I felt it was necessary in this case. As I was returning home after a long day of installing carpets and linoleum for a bunch of suburbanite assholes, my insides let me know with subtle rumblings and the emission of the occasional fart that terrible things would be happening soon. Unfortunately, I had to stop at the mall to pick something up for my girlfriend. After doing this, as I was walking back to my car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "everything must go!" This was rather 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 were in the following conditions:

Stall 1 - Occupied

Stall 2 -Clean, but public restroom protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.

Stall 3 - Shit everywhere.

Stall 4 - Appeared to be plugged; no paper.

Stall 5 - Door had a busted lock and the seat had lots of half-dried piss on it.

Clearly, it had to be stall #2. I trudged back, entered and sat down. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but powerful forces were stirring. I was just getting ready to bear down, when the sound of Beethoven began emanating 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 politeness, so as not to disrupt the conversation with loud "ker-plunks," my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on, and 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 it loudly dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I didn't see the need to yak about it in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get to crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier. Finally, my anger reached a point that overcame politeness. 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 the might of a 250 lb. Russian woman giving birth. 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 sturdy plywood being pulled off a sturdier wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up an old Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheecks had stopped flapping in my own 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; 2) the washroom was now beset by a horrid, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell itself had ben opened. The ungodly, practically palpable 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 surpressed sounds of coughs, 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 cacophany of rips, farts, squirts, poots and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the bowl. The amount of stuff in me was incredible; it sprayed agaisnt the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surverying the damage, I saw that liquid feces had actually managed to richochet 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 dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony. "Gotta go....Horrible....Puke in my mouth....Tell the kids I love them...." followed by more sounds of surpressed gagging and retching. Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's ass 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 a string of profanities 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 anouncement 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 washroom, 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 simply not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth. I exited that washroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me, but I saw no one. I think it will be a long time before my anonymous poop-mate can bring hismelf to shit in public - and I doubt he'll answer his cell phone in the crapper ever again.

 

I'm not entirely sure that he managed to expel any feces, actually. I think I may have scared him off before he could accomplish the deed, and have a horrid image in my mind of him firing out chunks with every step as he fled the restroom as fast as he could.