Happens to me all the time
Yesterday about mid-morning as I was filling out my TPS reports, I was suddenly smitten with the strong urge to take a dump. I headed for the office bathroom on my floor, seated myself on the middle of three crappers, dropped my drawers and got ready for the onslaught.
My poop and my writing style are very similar: normally the shit just spills out of me. However, yesterday, I dropped a couple of turdlets in advance of the big show, which started about a minute later. When it's time came, the monster grogan slipped half way from my butt and, horrors upon horrors, got stuck. Yes, I had a turd hanging from my ass, half in and half out.
This is a disturbing sensation because the natural state of my asshole is closed. It is only open when something is transitioning outwards. My asshole does not usually stay in a pried open position, but it's not as if I haven't experienced this before while crapping. Still, it is disturbing when it happens. The only things to do are to either bear down and hope that I can convince it to move on or to wait it out, which is what I prefer to do. So, I assumed my Thinker position and settled in for the duration.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, however, my nemesis entered the bathroom. He's this rather large, lumbering hulk from another division that has offices on our floor. A skunk must have crawled all the way up his ass and died where it got stuck because he has stunk up the bathroom for as long as I've been on this job site. His stench, on more than one occasion, has repelled me from my floor's crapper. But that has always happened before my ass hit the seat.
The lumbering hulk made his way to the handicrapper, which is probably the only crapper large enough to accommodate his frame. He pulled some TP off the roll, wiped the seat, dropped trou, and sat down - I know all of this because I was sitting there, listening in mute horror. While I was hoping that my stuck turd would start to move soon, the lumbering hulk let out a series of three loud, wet farts in short succession. Brap. Brap. Brap-pp-pp. From the muffled echo, I could tell that that he was firmly planted on the seat, which meant that some of the damage would be contained. Or so I thought.
Within seconds, his stench managed to escape from the toilet, climbed either over or under the barrier separating us and started to waft around my nostrils. It was absolutely repulsive. It smelled like somebody had pissed into a malt liquor bottle, capped it and buried it for twenty years. Literally, my eyes were watering, my nostrils were on fire, and I was doing my damnedest to fight back the gag reflex. As my senses started to return from this initial wave, I thought about saying something witty like "Hey, can we get a courtesy flush please?" I decided, though, that complaining would do no good because this was aerosolized, weapons-grade shit, the vanguard of the main assault still to come.
Not wanting to die a slow death of asphyxiation with my pants around my ankles, I decided right then and there that something must be done and quickly. I tried bearing down on the turd, but that only caused a very slight movement which was lost when I relaxed from The Push. I tried a second time to no avail. It was then that I admitted the awful truth of the only real alternative available to me.
I collected myself for a couple of seconds and then, with all of my strength, cinched my asshole down as tightly as ever I could. There was some progress on pinching off the turd followed by a slowing. Finally, the turd yielded. I heard the exposed half of the turd hit the water; sadly, I could also feel the unexposed half crawl back into my bowels.
Now unencumbered by my turdage, I snatched my pants up, flushed and escaped the confines of the crapper. However, the air out in the open area of the bathroom was just as foul. Since I had already foregone the wiping, I figured that I was safe for the moment without washing my hands. As quickly as I could without running, I shuffled out of the bathroom and, once clear of the door, gasped for the relatively fresh, re-circulated air by the elevator bank.
At this juncture, the reality of the recent events hit me. I had been chased from the crapper in mid-turd. I was so embarrassed that I hung my head in shame. I pressed the call button for the elevator so I could find sanctuary for my sorry ass on another floor.
No sooner had I posted this in the forums than I set out for the bathroom in order to take a piss. Guess who was washing his hands at the far sink?
As I walked to the urinal, I figured that he had managed to tame his ass for that day. No such luck. As I stood there at the urinal, he shuffled into the handicrapper, dropped trou and let out an absolutely ginormous fart. It sounded just like the crescendo at the end of Ravel's Bolero. The entire orchestra of his ass blared away in a prolonged cacophony of sound and was followed by a deafening quiet. If I hadn't been so repulsed and had my hands occupied, I might have clapped.
It was a typical Tuesday morning at work. Shortly after ten AM, the second cup of coffee had begun to pry at my lower intestinal tract; hence, it was time to grab some reading material and venture to my second office. The restrooms on my floor are somewhat unsanitary, so when Mother Nature calls, I typically venture down to the thirteenth floor.
Ahh, the glorious thirteenth floor, where the urinal cakes smell like potpourri and the toilet seats are short-n-curly free. To my amazement, the entire restroom was completely empty. This is a very rare occurrence when one considers that there is only this single restroom on this male-dominated floor, and I certainly wasn't the only guy to have enjoyed multiple cups of bowel-loosening java this morning.
"Perfect," I thought to myself. "For this mornings session I shall choose The Executive."
The Executive, of course, is the oversized handi-capable stall. The Executive always provides sufficient bowl roll, grab rails, copious legroom, and is situated at the end of the row. This advantageous stall location eliminates one half of the adjacent patrons and provides optimal mirror angle so that hand-washers can't identify the occupant through the door cracks (unless they've memorized your footwear!).
So I assumed the position and happily proceeded to evacuate. Generally, I'm a courteous customer, and I try to remain mindful of other guests, unlike many who violently vomit out of their arses and are apparently oblivious to others around them. But, as I had previously stated, I was the sole participant on this glorious morn, so I felt at ease with cutting loose a bit.
Now, I don't specifically recall what I had eaten the previous day, but it was certainly departing my body in a somewhat light, airy, and forceful manner. Much to my dismay, I was only able to muster a few solid pushes before the restroom door swung open and someone entered. Or did they? I heard no subsequent footsteps. Must have been a Houdini: that person who peeks in only to find that someone else is already utilizing the highly sought Executive, then vanishes only to return ten or fifteen minutes later.
Alone again, I began to seriously focus on the tasks at hand: grunting, no courtesy flushes, no vent control, every orifice involved and working at full capacity. I was destroying the porcelain. Including proper clean-up, the total session lasted about ten minutes.
Like a murderer trying to wipe away incriminating fingerprints, I tried flushing several times in an effort to erase my damage, but to no avail. It looked as if a cannon loaded with fifty melted Snickers bars had been fired into the commode. This was no longer my problem: mission accomplished.
I pulled up the Dockers, fastened the belt, gave a few quick tugs to straighten the shirt, and opened The Executive door primed to take on the rest of the day. What I saw next shall forever scar my soul: there, to my sheer horror, sat a man in a wheelchair, peering at me with a look of hatred and disgust almost as if I had killed his first-born child.
I nearly fainted. Not only was he in there hearing and smelling my endeavors, but he now had no choice but to roll himself into the malodorous abyss and face the hideous carnage.
All I could manage was to get out an apologetic "Hey" and the accompanying head nod.
I raced to the sink, ran water over my hands, and promptly departed. As I exited, I quickly peered over my shoulder and saw the last turn of the wheels and the stall door shut as this poor handicapped man entered my apocalyptic death chamber.
My sister and I were less than enthused about spending the day at our Uncle M's house while our parents and aunt visited our hospitalized grandmother. Previous encounters with him and his clan had convinced us that their side of our family tree had more rotting branches than Andrew "Dice" Clay National Bank. In particular, we recalled the indecency our uncle had committed on the way to the beach, when a stop at a gas station revealed that he'd been sitting (and presumably farting) on a bag of jumbo marshmallows for over two hours in sweltering heat. Seeing as how the bag's gooey contents now resembled a large withdrawal from a sperm bank, my aunt went to throw it away. My uncle shot that idea down like a sixty pound pigeon, tearing a hole in the bag and shotgunning the confectionery ejaculate before our very eyes.
That was Uncle M. in a nutshell. Born with the undiscriminating palate of a goat, the voracious appetite of a vulture, the iron-bellied constitution of a maggot, and the razor-sharp intellect of a dustpan, the man was an idiot savant of consumption who loved pushing the boundaries of edibility. He laughed in the face of expiration dates, refused to cower to inferior packaging, and treated mold, rot, and spoilage the way cab drivers treat traffic lights: as mere colors, not incentives to brake or stop. Yet somehow he always managed to elude a date with food-borne illness.
But his gustatory "gift" didn't come without a price. For once the vittles hit his vitals, my uncle's relationship with food became a bit more adversarial.
It was established early into our visit that our uncle wanted nothing to do with us. The "why dont'cha go play outside?" mantra began the moment our parents left. Stationed firmly in front of the TV, omnipresent can of Stroh's in hand (he was a loyal foot soldier in the war against sobriety), his intentions were unannounced but clear: get drunk and watch football. Fueling this endeavor: cylinders of cellulose-encased hog batter and irradiated fecal contaminants immersed in a tangy egg-based emulsion, AKA "frankfurters dunked in mayonnaise". By no means a culinary delight, but at least it wasn't the lunchmeat developing a rudimentary brain stem or the tube sock full of onion rings we'd come to expect. The problem now was that he ate as if he had learned dining etiquette watching trapped woodland creatures gnaw their own limbs off, devouring the dogs with an open-mouthed fervor that afforded the unfortunate observer a disturbing peek into the initial stage of the digestive process. My sister and I decided to sequester ourselves upstairs with my reprobate older cousin.
As usual, my cousin wasted little time trying to impress us by tinkering with blasting caps, making blood oaths to Satan, and whatnot. But before he could teach us how to make gravity bongs out of groundhog skulls, the retort of an unmuffled anal exhalation from downstairs turned his attention to the subject of his old man's legendary bathroom exploits.
My cousin's dead eyes lit up as he filled our thirsty minds with fantastic tales of studded fecal warheads that would choke a Roman aqueduct and render most men an unthinking, unfeeling blob. Better yet, he claimed his dad was sometimes compelled to call attention to his handiwork. If we were "lucky", maybe we would be invited to admire a well-nourished anaconda of bowel meat before we returned home! He suggested a stakeout of the bathroom when and if the steady infusion of cold beer and rolled boar galvanized the old man's colon to action. I was in a state of rapture.
It happened a few hours later. With the trained ear of a safecracker, my cousin heard the soft click of the bathroom door closing downstairs, followed by the fan being turned on. My uncle was about to engage the enemy! Laughing hysterically, the three of us raced downstairs and stationed ourselves outside the bathroom door. The way my cousin told it, a comical chorus of anguished cries, explosive bodily noises, and the occasional long, melancholy wail would soon ensue.
Several minutes passed and of course none of these blessed events transpired. My sister and cousin soon lost interest and went outside to practice witchcraft and experiment with needle drugs or something. I decided to stick around lest any drama unfold.
Life as I knew it was just about over.
Time passed and I heard neither peep nor poop from him. Just ominous silence. My patience was nearing its end when my uncle quietly emerged.
I knew instantly that he had just endured a profound test of the human spirit. He was visibly aged and shaken, and cloaked in the shroud of despair and neurotoxic fumes that accompany a slow dance with Bowelzebub. My presence outside the door seemed to startle him. He flinched, his eyes widened, and a grin of undiluted idiocy creased his face as he sheepishly muttered a phrase astounding in its modesty. "I do a pretty good job in there."
My eyes were drawn to the glistening object in his hands. "Dear God almighty," I thought, as the gravity of what I was seeing finally registered. What he called a "pretty good job" was in fact a behemoth slab of hog-infested ass lumber that would separate the average Clydesdale from consciousness. By far the biggest turd I had ever seen, it was long, dark, gnarled, and greasy, like King Kong's ring finger after a bucket of KFC. Never minding the fact that he'd made the mind-boggling decision to extricate it from the shitter and handle it sans gloves, I struggled to wrap my head around the biomechanics necessary to pass this bitch: the ringmeat elasticity, the intestinal dexterity, the pelvic displacement, the ribcage flexibility! Hell, the strain of the colonic fulcrum alone should have confined him to a rectal harness for life! A "pretty good job"?!! For fuck's sake -- a brown mass this large hadn't been freed in one sitting since the drafting of the Emancipation Proclamation.
Still cradling this zeppelin of metabolized swine in his hands, and with his shit slit no doubt suffering the effects of meat stress, my new God began gingerly shuffling down the hallway, dripping bung water and divine gastric juice all the way. Hopelessly drawn to the turd's swollen majesty and gravitational pull, I followed, despite being enveloped by the fog of boar -- a thick, hickory-smoked pestilence potent enough to cause agitated motor activity in seasoned sulfur miners.
When he turned into the kitchen, I figured he was gonna toss the goliath in a plastic bag or wrap it in aluminum foil for enshrinement in the Jesus Fucking Christ! Wing of the Smithsonian. But when I heard grinding blades of metal being fired up, I knew this saga was about to cross the line from "disturbingly funny" to "emotional-growth stunting."
With an unconscionable lack of sanity and sanitation, my uncle began cramming his illegitimeat son snout-first down the garbage disposal. My stomach lurched as the blades ripped through the beast's muscled haunches. The whole grisly affair only lasted a few seconds, but the sound of the disposal belching and gurgling on the hellish onslaught will last a lifetime.
When all was shred and done, I didn't know what to do or say. All I came up with was, "Why did you put that down the sink?!"
His response was curt and absolutely laughable. "Well, I couldn't just leave it lay there!" Suddenly he was Emily Post, a slave to social graces!!
There were so many things I could have said. But seeing a grown man reduce an anvil of processed sow into a hepatitis frappe with a beloved kitchen appliance has a way of sucking the conversation out of you. So I said nothing. In a way, I suppose that made me complicit.
The whole thing ended anticlimatically. My uncle ran some water down the sink and washed his hands with a strange look of peace and serenity on his face, as if he had appeased some long-tormented ghost. Then he wordlessly returned to his recliner and a life free from the rigors of thought and reflection.
I approached my uncle the last time I saw him (about five years ago) to give this incident the long-overdue "WHAT THE FUCK?!!" interrogation it so richly deserved. I expected him to laugh the whole thing off and chalk it up to "minced pork psychosis", "mayonnaise toxicity", "post-traumatic Stroh's disorder", or the like.
To my astonishment, he threw me a curve and claimed no recollection of it. This lent credence to the theory I've always supported: he was simply a drunken pig six beers past giving a fuck. Then again, maybe he just didn't feel it was an appropriate topic to discuss in front of his new wife at his son's wedding.
Whatever the case, it seems I'll never know just what the hell he was thinking. Perhaps it's for the best. As Nietzsche wrote, "Gaze long into the abyss, and the abyss will gaze back into thee."
"Political Correctness is a doctrine fostered by a delusional illogical liberal minority and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous liberal press which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible to pick up a turd by the clean end."