I'm sharing this office crapping story to get it off my chest -- or out from under my kiester, if you prefer a more ass-oriented expression. This isn't a one-time occurrence; this is an extreme example of déjà poop.
Many years ago I saw a late-night horror movie about this carload of people (or was it just a husband and wife?) who were traveling through some wooded countryside. They stopped at a wilderness tavern to ask directions, but every time they would leave and drive down the twisty backroads they'd soon wind up back at the tavern. And every time they showed up at the tavern there would be some unsavory rednecks there to greet them. The thought of this happening to me used to send chills down my spine, just like this annoying case of déjà poop does today.
I work in an office environment (though we're housed in the equivalent of a tin machine shed) in a small Midwestern town. It's the kind of town that produces pregnant teens by the dozens. The kind of town that the rest of the world has forgotten, with the exception of family services. My company is a mix of young professionals, competent workers, and sorry fools that have no life. Ask one of them where Italy is and they'd probably say that it's the capital of Iowa.
The office area of my company has two bathrooms for each sex. All are unfit for a pack of wild jackals, much less human beings. I am thankful that I'm a man, as a female co-worker frequently returns from the loo with horror stories of pregnant teen mothers puking in the sink. No thank you, I say. The men's bathrooms are lit by energy-saving fluorescent bulbs -- nice for cutting utility costs, but very poor in terms of encouraging crapping in a welcoming, natural environment. The place is "cleaned" every day by a broken-down wreck of a janitor who spends most of her time reading ads for window air conditioners on the breakroom bulletin boards. Thus, soap and water almost never find their way to any surface in any of our bathrooms. The gray tile floors are black in many places, and the sink counters have a year's worth of dust on them. Many have witnessed the occasional brown submarine that becomes beached on the floor; and the lone urinal in each bathroom always features an empty urinal cake holder and the fragrant stench of moldy, rotting piss. In other words, this is somewhere that you DO NOT want to be for more than thirty seconds.
I have to come clean and say that I'm a shy shitter. I've had days where I've farted a green, egg-salad haze over the entire office area and still have not been able to drop the big plop. But I know that some of this paralyzing fear also comes from the fact that our bathrooms are so damn disgusting. That is why I can't figure out this case of déjà poop. I'm a marathon runner and I drink a lot of water, and I usually have plenty of coffee in the morning, too. Needless to say, I have to enter our piss prisons up to eight or nine times a day on average. And it seems like every time I dare to step into one of these gulags a man who I will call "Mr. White Shoes" is there . . . sitting in the stall. déjà poop, over and over.
Mr. White Shoes is tall and has huge, Paul-Bunyan-like feet. His shoes must be at least a size fourteen -- New Balance, in fact. I've never uncovered his true identity. How can someone feel the need to sit in one of those turd torture chambers five, six, or even nine times a day? I've never heard his anal trumpet emit a sound: nary a plop, splat, brappppp or craaack. However, I have seen, on multiple occasions, his feet swinging back and forth like he's gaily hanging his legs off a dock and splashing his toes in the cool water of a glacial lake on a sultry summer afternoon. What kind of perverted monster does this on the can? Is there some sort of turd tendon that he's trying to exercise? If he had some sort of crapping condition, you'd think I and others would hear some sort of foul flute music as he's blowing out his diseased crap canyon.
If that isn't a disturbing enough picture of this stall troll, think about the fact that by a conservative (and I stress CONSERVATIVE) estimate, Mr. White Shoes spends the equivalent of thirteen working days a year on the throne. Thirteen days a year... and probably more! I admit that I often marvel at the wonders the human butt faucet can pour forth, but I could never fathom being so enamored by the process that I would spend the equivalent of thirteen working days a year in our festering, piss-fouled "restrooms." Maybe Mr. White Shoes was abused as a child, and pretend crapping is all he has left (until he decides to immolate himself by driving his Chevy truck through a pile of burning oat straw). Or maybe he has grand illusions of his own fame: the King of Crapping, the Duke of Dooking, the Shaw of Shitting, the Pope of Plopping. White Shoes: if you're gonna park it on the porcelain recycling center, you gotta leave a load. Period.
Pooping enthusiasts: thank you for your attention in reading my experiences with déjà poop. In a patriotic spirit, not unlike that of General George B. McClellan of old, allow me to humbly close with this final thought: We must all work tirelessly, and even at times against great odds and insurmountable obstacles, to banish Mr. White Shoes and his fartless-followers from offices nationwide. No innocent evacuator shall be subjected to relieving their bodies in the presence of stall trolls, perverts, or any other assorted miscreants. Let me say then, gallant crappers, that our motto going forward is: "You Sit -- You Shit!"
