I work in a small office in a high rise in a large city. We have two separate restrooms, one for men, and another other for women. My unbelievably cheap boss hired a three-hundred pound, seventy year-old homeless woman to do clerical work in our office. This is not a joke; she is literally homeless and manages to sustain a hefty weight of three bills. The homeless woman – I’ll call her "Carol” – eats whatever food she can find, including that left in dumpsters; so it is suffice to say she has her fair share of gastrointestinal problems.
Given Carol's girth and age, she moves purely by inertia. She leans forward and the momentum delivers her to the intended destination. Her inability to lift her feet or reach any part of her body other than her mouth has created its share of problems. For starters, Carol cannot properly position her prolapsed rectum over the porcelain bowel. She lowers herself as best she can, using only the stall walls for guidance. Imagine landing a 747 in dense fog at night with no instruments, and you can picture Carol trying to align her brown eye over the throne.
For a person with normal stool, improper alignment of the sphincter and bowl can create a bit of a mess and embarrassment. Carol, however, has not had a solid bowel movement since the days of J. Edgar Hoover; and given that her diet consists largely of parasites and bacteria, her bowel movements tend to resemble a volcanic eruption. Carol has never taken an art class in her life, but she is quite the painter, if you catch my drift. The problem has become so frequent that building maintenance now refuses to clean up her mess, which leaves an unusable bio-hazard of a restroom for the remainder of the women on our floor. Instead of reviewing Carol's artistry, the gals on the floor have taken to using the Men’s restroom. None of the women in office are remotely attractive, so no guy gets the benefit of cranking off bare-assed on toilet seat still warm from the firm buttock of a Victoria Secret model.
No, the gals in our office look more like Roseanne Barr, Rosie O'Donnell, or that now unemployed actress who played Precious. These gals are not knuckle butter material, and in fact, it is revolting to place my ass on the same seat they have sat on. This brings us to Operation Brown Derby. Several of the men on the floor have taken to intentionally covering the electronic eye on the toilet to prevent it from flushing, thus leaving copious amounts of shit in the bowel for the gals to see. One fellow even started taken Metamucil and the diet drug Alli. (Imagine a mud slide running into a lake after an Exxon oil spill.) To date, the gals have stomached it out and still continue to use our bathroom, but lunch beckons; and I hear corn chowder is on the menu downstairs. I intend to consume four large bowls and return to deposit the contents of my colon in the bowl for the gals to see, and to reclaim our bathroom once and for all.