Playing In The Water
I have worked in a small office with all women for quite some time now. While at work, I will never let the plunger out of my sight. I have clogged the toilet so many times that I have target precise plunging skills. The coworker who I work with the closest knows this, and she always know when I start "playing in the water".
One day after not pooping for a week I knew something was very wrong, so I ended up going to Rite Aid in search of a solution with a friend who had recently had surgery. I had tried all the products on the shelf advertised to make me go, but nothing worked. It was then that my friend told me about magnesium citrate – the oral liquid he used when he went under the knife. It was a buck and change. I thought to myself, "This is the cheapest yet!"
Bottle in hand, I returned to work and warned my co-worker of the future things to come. She laughed at me as usual. I sat at my desk and began to chug the stuff. I made it about half-way through and had to take a break, and then finished the rest. I thought it was going to take about a half an hour. Well, it did not. Two hours went by, and still nothing happened.
That changed when, all of a sudden, my abs started rumbling. It was now or never. Thankfully, the bathroom is less than eight feet from my desk. I made haste without jolting to much and practically tore off my pants in just in the nick of time. I felt like I was crapping a brick. The handicapped bar in our bathroom had never been used so much. I pushed hard enough, but it took my entire anus to make the whole monster rear it head.
I was left sweating from the experience. Wanting to make sure everything had cleared, I gave it one more good push, and was left panting for breath. I felt like I had suffered a butthole malfunction, because I actually thought I was peeing out of it. I didn't stop for about a good minute, but it felt like an eternity.
The bathroom has no fan and no window, so by then I was literally crying from pushing and having to breathe in the fog around me in order to do so. (Lysol just does not cut through aromas that thick.) The toilet paper we use at work is such that it could probably be used in place of sand paper, but I was in luck; I had bought some wet wipes a while back. I was so happy I remembered them. Saving myself further burn, I used two wipes trying to clean thoroughly. By the time I finished, the poor toilet looked like a Jackson Pollock print cast in monotone brown, going from white to not-so-much white.
the next step was tricky. In order to flush our toilet, you have to hold the lever down for the entire flush. But, in order to avoid being splashed with toilet water I always have to put the lid down. Well, this was a bad day to flush the toilet with a closed lid. I guess between the large brick I hammered out and the wipes I used the toilet clogged, and I had no idea. I held the handle down the entire time, expecting to hear the toilet’s final gurgle. And nothing happened. When I opened the lid, the entire mess was right there to greet me – all the paper, poo, and wipes – and had risen to the rim to do so. I let go of the lever and proceeded to make myself a safety over flow, something I have done many times before. I placed paper towels all around the toilet and stood on my toes, with my pants hiked up for the flood. I grabbed my trusty plunger, and as soon as it hit the water, my mess overflowed. Every time I plunged with the plunger, the mess would splash everywhere.
I managed to hit the back of the seat, the wall, and I think the ceiling. (I’m actually not sure about the ceiling. I may have been paranoid at that point.) I was dehydrated, shaking and achy the entire time I was playing in the water. My shoes offered no grip at all, and I slid around the floor. After about a half hour in that cramped, no-window bathroom I finally set the beast loose, and the toilet flushed.
I cleaned the bathroom with Clorox. Then, I put the beast in a garbage bag and tied it up. I washed my hands and emerged from the bathroom, victorious, with the garbage bag in hand, but I forgot that I had rolled my jeans. There waiting for me was my coworker, laughing hysterically. She asked if there had been a flood. Thank god I love her dearly; otherwise I think I would have been embarrassed.
During the entire next week she and my friend cracked jokes about it, and now they call 2010 the year of the flood.