For many years now, I've taken part in a public access radio show with a friend of mine. Given the slot of 2-5 AM, we are often the only ones in the building. Now before I progress with the poo, one has to know just a little bit about Luke.
Luke has been confined to a wheelchair his entire life, and has made the best of it. He brags of his 2nd grade exploits, where he would fall out of his chair so that his large-breasted teacher would pick him up. (Luke is a pig, and if you won't take my word for it, check his website.) But we all seem to like him anyways. It's a common practice to pick on him a little bit every once in a while, but I might have taken it too far last week.
We were at the station with another friend of ours when my stomach began to give warning of an apocalypse in progress. I made way to the charming facilities and laid waste to the toilet. The resulting pile was a horrendous concoction of molten poo, liquid enough to have congealed out of log form, solid enough to have mounded. And oh, the smell -- I felt it would be a crime to waste this beautiful gift of sensory dessert, so I didn't flush it. I closed the door and let it brew for an hour.
Half the station had the stench of doom, but in our studio we were isolated from the fallout. Luke had taken to verbal ejaculations about the "fat bitch that broke my bed!!" and had finally earned his karmic justice. He asked to be wheeled to the bathroom so he could piss. Yes, he is too lazy to wheel himself to the bathroom.
I obliged, rapidly moving him down the corridor so that he would not have a chance to question the foulness that lurked. I pushed him into the bathroom, turned off the lights, and held the door closed forcibly. The intended effect was that he would be unable to find the source of the wretchedness, and thusly was not able to expunge it. Screams of, "Dude, that's SICK!! This isn't funny, guys!" echoed through the studio.
Oh we laughed and laughed, and finally released him from his fecal hotbox. What we found shocked us: he had turned the lights on, maneuvered over to the toilet, taken his piss, but STILL HADN'T FLUSHED THE BEAST.
Common sense dictates that before all else, you would eliminate the Hitler-poo. Perhaps he couldn't help but appreciate its beauty, and understood that to flush would be a crime. It's not really turd-terrorism if the victim likes it, is it?