speedoflife

CAUTION: LONG POST
But well worth the read.

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 colon
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 the wife.

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 back side 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 1 through 5 for your convenience:

1. Occupied.

2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the
occupied one.

3. Poop smeared on seat.

4. Poop and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

5. No toilet paper, no stall door, something growing near base of toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped
trousers 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 insane conversation
went on and on. Mr. ****ter was blathering to Mrs. ****ter about the crappy
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 it in public.

My butt 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 butt 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, putrid stench.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened.

The foul stench of rotting excrement 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 a string of
swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into thetoilet.

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 crap in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the can.

And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom