I had just started my "real" working career doing electrical engineering, and I was not well-vouched in the intricacies of workplace life and manners. On our floor we had three medium-sized bathrooms with three stalls each. They were well maintained because we had a twenty-four-hour maintenance crew on hand. Two of the bathrooms were always in use because they were located near the older men (practically everyone I worked with qualified for that description) who frequently had to release the demon.
However, I only used the one particular bathroom that was most secluded, because I do not claim to be a Shameless pooper. I feel very uncomfortable dropping a load with someone in the bathroom. If I knew the consistency, smelliness rating, and size, I would be able to adjust my plan of attack. But sadly in life, this is information you can only know if you've spent a night drinking twenty-four beers and eating ten dollars worth of Taco Bell. Other than that, it's a crap shoot, literally.
So I am a Shameful Shitter because I fear that a screaming missile will howl out of my backside, splash everywhere, and alert everyone to the intern who has desecrated the porcelain. Fair enough.
So I had been in the habit of going to my beloved dung-receiving room and enjoying my solitary shits, with only a few intruders (no turd burglars, mind you). In the event of an invasion, I would simply wait out the storm until I was alone again and free to doo the work I doo. However, a pattern became unsettling evident to me: around ten-thirty, my regular poopy time, a man with the same brown Docker loafers would intrude on my poopy-joy-time and sit in the stall next to me.
This scared me the first couple times, and I didn't know how to act. I usually had to make brown quite bad whenever I went to my sanctuary, so holding it in and waiting for the brown-shoed intruder to leave was a daunting and painful task. To add to the pain of waiting, he would bring a newspaper as well, exponentially increasing my wait time depending on how interesting current world events have been. So I wait and wait, but Brown Shoes never lets a turd go, and I am forced to leave and make the chocolate shuffle to another floor!
This happened nearly every day. Was this man taunting me, knowing full well I am sweating and clenching my cheeks so hard that I could have a brain aneurysm at any moment? Did he have a personal vendetta against me?!?
Well, I had had enough of Brown Shoes' games. One glorious Friday during summer, I went in the bathroom at ten-thirty sharp, and sure enough, about two minutes later, in comes Brown Shoes. However, today Brown Shoes is entering the bathroom in a much more hasty manner. Maybe he has to get to a meeting, or maybe too many beers on a thirsty Thursday? In any event, he rapidly sat down next to me as usual. I could hear him moving in an uncomfortable manner as to hold in his shit. This is when I knew it: Brown Shoes was a Shameful Shitter as well!
I was determined this time to not lose -- I did not have to poop as bad as usual, so I was ready for the long haul. But my opponent was ill-prepared. I was determined to outlast Brown Shoes.
The battle to determine the most Shameful Shitter began.
At last, revenge was mine! Sweet divine retribution and vengeance! It seemed as though the world was still and silent and everyone awaited the outcome of the battle. Brown Shoes then began to make audible noise not only from his mouth, but also from his rear. Ahh, yes, excellent, the splash that would seal his fate and declare my victory was attempting to burst forth. Brown Shoes shuddered and winced for roughly one more minute, and then came my victory.
In a hurdling, thunderous, and epically foul-smelling demonstration of rump power, Brown Shoes let open the floodgates of his bowels. Warm liquid-like poo oozed into the awaiting water below (I knew it to be liquidy because that sound is unmistakable), and Brown Shoes breathed a sign of relief. After a few after-toots, he wiped with a copious amount of toilet paper and opened the stall door to wash up and leave. After washing up, he opened the door to leave -- and then stopped for a brief moment, before finally walking out.
What was going through Brown Shoes' mind at in that brief second? Maybe he thanked me for being a formidable opponent, or maybe he cursed me and my family, or maybe he was overjoyed that even in his old years (I partially caught of glimpse of him through the small crack in the stall door), he could still enjoy the thrill of battle in the company bathroom?
I was filled with happiness. I felt like I won the World Series. To this date, I have never had a better Friday in my life.
