Why you shouldn't shit in a public bathroom

• Posted by Deleted Member November 12, 2012 #Mobile phones  #toilet ettiquette  #stupidity  #hilarity  945 views
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  Right Boys and Girls and those as yet still undecided, there has been far too much bitching, infighting and general stupidity going on in this site lately so it's time to lighten up with this cautionary tale...be careful the next time you have a curry

   

  If you don't laugh out loud at this, something is very very wrong with you.

   

   

  This is why you shouldn’t talk on your phone in a public 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 Schoops. 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 Walmart to go Christmas shopping. 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 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. Poo on seat.

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

  5. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object 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 Shitter. 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. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shity 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
  (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
  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 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.