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
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 girlfriend. I
completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way
back to the car, I noticed a large sale 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
1. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the
2. Poo on seat.
3. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on
4. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base
Clearly, it had to be Stall #1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou
and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful ****ter. 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 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. pooper was blathering to
Mrs. pooper about the poopy day he had. I sat 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 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 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
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 *** 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 by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a
gateway to •••• had been 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 in 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 on
to 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...
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 plop and splash from next door, followed by
string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into
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
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
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 ••••• 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. Do your business and get out.