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I DID NOT WRITE THIS i got it from Lala who got it of General Discussions.











Okay, so let me tell you about last week.

All in all it had been a rather crappy day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent co-workers, and a sore toe had all turned me into a seething cauldron of murderous rage. But more importantly, for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I had taken a dump. I tried to jumpstart the process, beginning the day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, followed up with six cups of coffee at work, and then a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell.

As I was returning home from work my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the occasional tiny fart that big things would soon be on their way. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order for my fiancee.

I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way out I saw a large sign proclaming in bright letters "Everything Must Go!!" This was prophetic, for at that moment, my colon with a sudden violent cramp and a wet squeaky fart that everything was indeed "about to go."

I hurried to the mall bathrooms and looked at the stalls (which I have labeled 0 through 4 for your convenience. I write a lot of software).

0. Occupied

1. Available and clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids it's use as it's next to an occupied one.

2. Poo on seat

3. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentified liquid on seat.

4. No toilet paper, no stall door, some unidentifiable sticky thing near toilet base.

Clearly I would be forced to break protocol and use stall one. I trudged back, entered, dropped my trousers, and sat down. I'm normally a fairly shameful shitter, and I wasn't happy about being next to an occupied stall, but I had no choice, Big Things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when suddenly the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by fumbling and the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly eight decibels 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 sat there cramping and miserable waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on I angrier and angrier, thinking that I too had had a crappy day but was too polite to yak about it in public. My bowels let me know that if I didn't get to crapping soon, my day would get even crappier.

Finally my anger overcame my shame. I just didn't care anymore. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, and braced my other against the side of the stall. Then I pushed with all my might.

I was rewarded by a fart of colossal magnitude. A cross between somebody ripping a very wet bedsheet, and a plank of plywood being ripped off a wall. The sound gradually modulated into a low RPM tone, not unlike a Harley being fired up. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall and it shook gently.

Once my cheeks stopped flapping in the wind, three things became apparent. 1) The next door conversation had ceased. 2) My colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come. 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 drifted underneath the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This herald fart had ended his conversation in mid sentence.

"Oh my God." I heard him utter. Followed by suppressed gags. And then. "No baby, that wasn't me *gag*. You could hear that?? *cough gag*"

There was no stopping me now. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the following cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots and blasts that I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremedous force. Later in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet off of the bowl and run down the sides onto the floor. But for now all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear fumbling as he reached for the paper dispenser, desperately trying to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my a**l symphony. "Gotta go... horrible.... thowing up in my mouth... not... make it... tell kids... love them.... Oh God..." Followed by more suppressed gagging and wretching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and a splash from my poop-mate's stall. This was promptly followed by swearing and gags. He had dropped his phone in 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 a**l announcement came trumpeting from my behind, some final chunks plopping noisily into the water. That was apparently the last straw, I heard a flush and a fumbling with the lock. I heard the door slam open and 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 would be forced to deal with this, but there was no way I was flushing this. No toilet in the world could handle this unholy mess. Flushing would only flood the floor with filth. As I left I glanced at the next-door stall. Nothing was left in the stall. Had he flushed his phone? Or had he plucked it out and fled the bathroom with a s**t-encrusted hand? The world may never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has transferred my shame to that unlucky man. I think it will be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public. And I doubt he will ever again answer his cell phone in the loo again.

The moral?

Don't talk on your cell phone while taking a dump.





I'll be amazed if you even made it this far.