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    • A Shitty Story

      13 years ago


      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:


      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

      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 ass 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.

    • My quotes

      14 years ago


      "It doesn't matter what the truth is, what matters is what people think the truth is"
      "Life is a combination of boredom and video games"
      "TV respects me, it laughs withs me, not at me"

    • 2019 years ago

    • 2019 years ago

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