The Big Dump

All in all, it hadn’t been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioningcomputer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seethingcauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been overforty-eight hours since I’d last taken a dump. I’d tried to jumpstartthe process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fibercereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding abean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from work, myinsides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of theoccasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, Ihad to stop at the mall to pick up an order for my wife. I completedthis task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way backto thecar, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, “Everything Must Go!” Thiswas prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp anda wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried tothe mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 0through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:0.Occupied.1.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it’s next to theoccupied one.2.Poo on seat.3.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered onseat.4.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near baseof toilet.Clearly, it had to be Stall ..1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trouand sat down. I’m normally a fairly Shameful Sh1tter. I wasn’t happyabout 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 sweetsounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, andthen the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for acell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than itneeded to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. Theinane conversation went on and on. Mr. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs.Sh1tter about the sh1tty day he had. I sat there, cramping andmiserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation draggedon, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappyday, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me knowin no uncertain terms that if I didn’t get crapping soon, my day wouldbe getting even crappier.Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longercared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my otherhand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I wasrewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude — a cross between the soundof someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood beingtorn off a wall. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavilymodulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managedto hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things becameapparent:(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 quicklymade 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 ofchoking, and then, “No, baby, that wasn’t me (cough, gag), you couldhear that (gag)??”Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I couldswear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots,and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount ofstuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendousforce. Later, in surveying the damage, I’d see that liquid poop hadactually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on tothe 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 hedesperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversationmade themselves heard over my anal symphony: “Gotta go… horrible…throw up… in my mouth… not… make it… tell the kids… lovethem… oh God…” followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging andretching.Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one’s phone and wipe one’s bumat the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet waswinding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed bystring of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone intothe toilet.There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathlyquiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. Afinal anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunksplopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. Iheard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door wasthrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the doorbehind him.After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed thedamage. 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 couldhandle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor floodedwith filth.As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in thebowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left thebathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking aroundfor a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow mysupernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to myanonymous poop-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before he can bringhimself to poop in public — and I doubt he’ll ever again answer hiscell phone in the loo. And this, my friends, is why you should nevertalk on your phone in the bathroom.

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