It was a typical Tuesday morning at work. Shortly after ten AM, the second cup of coffee had begun to pry at my lower intestinal tract; hence, it was time to grab some reading material and venture to my second office. The restrooms on my floor are somewhat unsanitary, so when Mother Nature calls, I typically venture down to the thirteenth floor.
Ahh, the glorious thirteenth floor, where the urinal cakes smell like potpourri and the toilet seats are short-n-curly free. To my amazement, the entire restroom was completely empty. This is a very rare occurrence when one considers that there is only this single restroom on this male-dominated floor, and I certainly wasn't the only guy to have enjoyed multiple cups of bowel-loosening java this morning.
"Perfect," I thought to myself. "For this mornings session I shall choose The Executive."
The Executive, of course, is the oversized handi-capable stall. The Executive always provides sufficient bowl roll, grab rails, copious legroom, and is situated at the end of the row. This advantageous stall location eliminates one half of the adjacent patrons and provides optimal mirror angle so that hand-washers can't identify the occupant through the door cracks (unless they've memorized your footwear!).
So I assumed the position and happily proceeded to evacuate. Generally, I'm a courteous customer, and I try to remain mindful of other guests, unlike many who violently vomit out of their arses and are apparently oblivious to others around them. But, as I had previously stated, I was the sole participant on this glorious morn, so I felt at ease with cutting loose a bit.
Now, I don't specifically recall what I had eaten the previous day, but it was certainly departing my body in a somewhat light, airy, and forceful manner. Much to my dismay, I was only able to muster a few solid pushes before the restroom door swung open and someone entered. Or did they? I heard no subsequent footsteps. Must have been a Houdini: that person who peeks in only to find that someone else is already utilizing the highly sought Executive, then vanishes only to return ten or fifteen minutes later.
Alone again, I began to seriously focus on the tasks at hand: grunting, no courtesy flushes, no vent control, every orifice involved and working at full capacity. I was destroying the porcelain. Including proper clean-up, the total session lasted about ten minutes.
Like a murderer trying to wipe away incriminating fingerprints, I tried flushing several times in an effort to erase my damage, but to no avail. It looked as if a cannon loaded with fifty melted Snickers bars had been fired into the commode. This was no longer my problem: mission accomplished.
I pulled up the Dockers, fastened the belt, gave a few quick tugs to straighten the shirt, and opened The Executive door primed to take on the rest of the day. What I saw next shall forever scar my soul: there, to my sheer horror, sat a man in a wheelchair, peering at me with a look of hatred and disgust almost as if I had killed his first-born child.
I nearly fainted. Not only was he in there hearing and smelling my endeavors, but he now had no choice but to roll himself into the malodorous abyss and face the hideous carnage.
All I could manage was to get out an apologetic "Hey" and the accompanying head nod.
I raced to the sink, ran water over my hands, and promptly departed. As I exited, I quickly peered over my shoulder and saw the last turn of the wheels and the stall door shut as this poor handicapped man entered my apocalyptic death chamber.
