Chapter 121

Please don't read this drinking coffee close to your computer keyboard ... you will regret it.

This one is compliments of John

All in all it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, and malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage.

But more importantly for the story, it had been over 48 hours since I last took a dump. I tried to jump start the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with 6 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 omission of the occasional tiny fart that big things would be happening soon.

Alas, I had to stop by the mall to pick up an order for my fiancée. I completed this task, and 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 trou 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 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 shitty 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 bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, My day will 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 the wall. The sounds 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: