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 Judas ShoesPosted 04.12.2005 by Poopster39 (189)
I hate wearing new leather sneakers. They're just so white and obvious. Like putting a blue bonnet on a pig. Everyone notices. And having OCD, I simply don't like to draw unnecessary attention to myself. As a result, my attire has always been somewhat middle-of-the-road. Nothing fancy or flashy. Occasionally, though, I simply have to break in a new pair of sneakers. There's no choice in the matter. And whenever I do, inevitably I'll end up walking past some doofus who's just waiting to make the brilliant remark: "Hey, new sneakers."
"A-hur hur hur. Good one. A-hur hur hur." I don't actually say this. But one day I'd like to. It was around 1993 and I was working for a printing company. I had my own private office, one of several in the building. Most of the building was factory space, housing ten printing presses, a finishing area, and several shipping stations. Even though I was white-collar, I dressed casually on this job, since my position required me to spend frequent time in the factory. I wore mostly Dockers and sneakers, that sort of thing. Since my office was located closer to the factory than the sales offices, I generally used the men's room shared by the pressmen and factory workers. That particular year the company was doing well and was desperately in need of more factory space. There was about two thousand square feet of unused office space flanking the factory restrooms. We had previously leased out this area, but the tenants moved out earlier that year and the space was just sitting there wasted. The owners brought in a construction crew to tear out the old offices, leaving only the restrooms standing. After demolition was completed, the two original restrooms sat smack in the middle of the enlarged factory floor, visible from all locations. As a shameful pooper, this did not sit well with me one bit. It was summer and I had taken off the previous week from work. I came in Monday morning having forgotten there was demolition and construction going on. Had I remembered, I would have probably worn some old jeans and sneakers. I had on instead my new ultra-white Converses, fresh out of the box and gleaming. "Hey, new sneakers." It was one of the sales assistants. "Yes, Merilee. I have new sneakers. Thanks for noticing." Dimwit. As I entered the factory, I saw the construction crew hard at work framing out the new space. They were loud and boisterous. Because I'm such a neurotic, I tend to avoid loud people. So I headed straight to my office and planted myself in front of the computer, content to remain there as long as possible. All that morning I had a bad case of wet farts. They were pretty noxious and my office wasn't well ventilated. So I had to go outside a few times to release them. My office had an emergency exit that opened to an overgrown weed patch behind the factory. It was private and the perfect place to vent ass-gas. There was a lean-to shed ten feet away that housed several loud compressors. This spot was one of my safe havens for the two years I worked in this location. By 11:30 that morning it became apparent that was I going to pay dearly for my weekend of drinking and excess, not to mention the three-egg, bacon and cheese hero and triple latte I'd had that morning. Normally when I felt a bad boy coming I would actually drive home to use my own bathroom. I only lived ten minutes away, and for a shameful pooper that was a small price to pay for my peace of mind. Unfortunately, liquipoo waits for no one. I put on a casual air as I walked through the factory toward the men's room. Meanwhile, the pressure in my colon was building to intolerable levels. Naturally, I was anxious, and I offered a silent prayer that nobody was inside the lone stall. My only alternative was to run back to my office, out the emergency exit, and shit in the weeds. I actually kept a roll of toilet paper in my desk drawer for just such an emergency. Thankfully, nobody was inside the men's room. I burst through the stall door, dropped my pants, and started to spray. Holy crap. Whatever it was that spritzed out of my crack could have been used to remove graffiti. My butt felt like it was spewing sulfuric acid. I could feel the flesh dissolving inside my o-ring. Thoughts of reconstructive surgery and butt catheters ran through my head as I blasted out the remains of my last three meals, two of which I couldn't even remember. When it finally ended, I found myself sweaty and panting. I was sure there was a hole in my colon the size of my fist. I had no doubt I was bleeding internally; I was afraid to look inside the bowl. I wiped my butt and it was like trying to clean up a quart of spilled grease with a napkin. The toilet paper roll was about to become history. As I finished cleaning up, I sensed the worst was yet to come. All of a sudden, a warm current wafted up to my face, coating it with an oily residue. Before I could make a move, an enormous stench-bubble had encapsulating my body from head to toe, like a monster jellyfish consuming it's prey. Normally I'm immune to my own stink, but this was a new species altogether. It smelled like a truckload of egg salad had been left outside for days in the sun, along with a few dead possum. The intensified odor of sulfur and rotted flesh created an acrid vapor that caused my eyes to well up with tears. The membranes in my nose burned as if someone had stuck a hot poker up there. I gagged and retched as I sat there in my own filth, scratching desperately at the air and gasping for oxygen. At this point it occurred to me that I was in a potentially humiliating situation. I had to sever any ties to this beast before anyone could connect me with it. That meant getting out of there fast and putting as much distance between us as possible. As the entity finished consuming the rest of the oxygen in the room, I quickly used up the remainder of the TP roll and flushed the toilet. I was pulling my pants up when the bathroom door burst open. Several men walked in laughing over something. I instantly took them to be construction workers. Cursing my bad luck, I sat back down and froze in place. There was a pause, and then one of the men started to gag. Then the others joined in. "Oh, my god. What the hell is that?" "Holy crap. Are you all right in there?" "Aughhhhhhh! Aughhhhhhh!" My world began to crumble around me. As I sat frozen like a piece of granite, one of the three workers walked out, gagging and retching. His two companions made snide remarks about him in his absence, using words that called into question his manhood. (You know, things that had to do with the female anatomy and such. Apparently, in their world of sweat and power tools, anyone who couldn't stand a little shit-stink didn't deserve to be part of their exclusive club.) They stepped up to the urinals and began a marathon piss contest that seemed to last the rest of the afternoon. Meanwhile, I sat there motionless in my prison of shame, waiting for the verbal abuse that was certain to come. A moment later, it started. "Jeez, that's bad," one of them muttered to his companion. Pure evil, both of them. My whole life up to that moment had been dedicated to avoiding encounters such as this. And now here I was, stuck in a vault with two tormentors and my own fecal stench -- which, by the way, still had enough life in it to kill children and the elderly. "Ohhh, boy." Each of these Nazi bastards had the bladder of an elephant. Their streams were endless, I tell you. It seemed as if there was an unspoken contest going on between them to see who could last the longest. As I uttered a silent prayer for them to finish up, time slowly ground to a halt. One of my worst fears was coming true, and these guys simply were not going to leave. Ever. They were waiting outside like the sentries to hell, preparing to strip me and lay bare my shame for all to see. "Man, what did that guy eat?" Will this infernal torture never end? By this time it had been nearly a minute since my heart had stopped. My brain was now starved of oxygen, and I could see flashes of light out of the corners of my eyes. A tunnel was opening before me and I saw my dead grandmother reaching out. I always liked her. I didn't think things could possibly get worse, until one of the men came up with a nickname for me: "White-Sneakers." "Hey, White-Sneakers. What was for breakfast anyway?" He said this casually, as if asking for the time. Then he squeezed out another endless stream of urine. That was it for me. I had been tagged like an albatross. It was these infernal sneakers. They were a beacon that could easily identify me in a group of a thousand men. There was no escape for me. I knew it for a certainty. I sat there in stony silence, hoping for a miracle. Perhaps an explosion in the factory. Anything. As I look back now, I realize I should have been cool about the whole thing. I could have easily called these two guys the f-word. They would have gained great respect for me and left me alone. Do you know what I did instead? I coughed. You know, one of those wussy, clear-your-throat coughs that announces to the world, "I'm vulnerable. Please abuse me." Instantly one of my tormentors picked up on my shame. "Hey, White-Sneakers. Don't think you can hide from us today." That's it. I was now a target. The synapses in my brain began misfiring. The room started to spin and the world around me sounded as if it was under water. Some sort of liquid sloshed inside my head. The mocking voices became deeper and slower, like a 45-speed record playing at 33 RPMs. They were casually plotting my downfall as they urinated. "Yeah, White-Sneakers. I'd keep out of sight if I were you." Flush. Flush. "Har-har-har-har-har. Har-har-har-har-har." After they left, I sat there paralyzed for another minute or two. Gradually my breathing and heartbeat returned. I had to come up with a plan. One of the manifestations of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder is extreme paranoia, especially when under duress. This is how my mind processed things: I was now officially "White-Sneakers: The Guy Who Stunk Up The Bathroom." I was positive the entire construction crew, along with all my co-workers, were waiting outside the door for me to come out. They were certain to be holding a banner that said "Welcome Back, Shit-Boy." Of these things I had no doubt. At this point, any escape plan had merit. I actually toyed with the idea of squeezing through the ceiling vent. Really. I didn't even care if I died inside the walls. My poop-stench would have probably covered over the gases from my rotting corpse anyway. Or, I could just stay in the bathroom all day until I was sure everyone had left. Believe me, I'm perfectly capable of doing this. I would simply stand in front of the sink and pretend to wash my hands until five PM. But it always came back to the sneakers. Those cursed sneakers. They would stand out like two surfboards strapped to my feet. Everyone would know for sure. No doubt word was spreading even as I stood there. I was certain of it. Five minutes passed before I finally gathered the courage to peek outside the door. I cracked it open a half inch and couldn't believe my eyes. I was in the clear. Most everyone had left for lunch. I was genuinely mystified. I skulked past the few remaining factory workers and practically dove into my office. Then I snuck out the emergency exit and walked around the back of the factory toward my car. I arrived at my home ten minutes later. "What are you doing home?" My wife asked. "I forgot something." "What?" "Nothing." Five minutes later I drove back to work wearing my old brown work boots. Am I sick, or what? -- Poopster39 Post new comment
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