|
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: This is from the WoW forums, and is not my writing. It is offensive, and gross. If offensive and gross are not your cup of humor, please don't read anymore. Having given this warning, I will not be accepting complaints that this is offensive and/or gross.
IF YOU DON'T LAUGH AT SOUTH PARK, DON'T READ ANY FURTHER. NOT KIDDING.
I AM ALSO NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOU SPITTING ANYTHING ON YOUR MONITOR WHILE READING THIS.
OK, You asked for it.
Never use cell phone in the bathroom
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 wife. I completed
this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way backto 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 convenience:
0.Occupied.
1.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the
occupied one.
2.Poo on 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 Sh1tter. 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. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs.
Sh1tter about the sh1tty 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 @ss 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 Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly
made its way underthe 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
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.
_________________
Dear God(if you even exist), I am willing to trade Justin Bieber, all 3 Jonases and Miley Cyrus to get Paul Gray, Ronnie James Dio, Pete Steele, Dimebag Darrell and Chuck Schuldiner back.
|
Login
FAQ
Search
