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 The Shameful StandoffPosted 11.09.2006 by PoopySmurf (47)
Yes, alas, I am a Shameful Shitter. I can venture towards bravery if I am reasonably certain I'll be dropping the kids off at the pool with only a few discreet splashes to mark their passage. If I know it's going to be noisy, though, I seek isolation. Fortunately my office has a bathroom in each wing. The one in the newer wing is used extensively. The older one is far less heavily trafficked; so if nature's call threatens to blast out at the decibel level of a thrash metal concert overflown by the Blue Angels, I head there for some quality time, so to speak.
So it was one Friday afternoon. My boss had ordered pizza as a reward for some meaningless task the team had completed, and it came from Papa John's. Much like the optimist looking for the pony in a pile of horse crap, I eat Papa John's pizza with the vague hope that it won't taste horrible and mess with my gastrointestinal system as it did the last time. Unlike the optimist, I have yet to find the pony. Sure enough, roughly an hour-and-a-half after consuming two slices of Meatza Pizza or whatever it was called, ominous gurgles began to issue from my digestive tract. I grabbed my purse, muttered something to my boss, and trotted to my secret poop abode to rid myself of the foul food matter. On this fateful afternoon, however, the secret was shared. As I walked in, I noticed that the first stall was occupied. I didn't hear the flow of urine or the unwrapping of a feminine hygiene product, so I figured she was probably finishing up; and my situation wasn't so dire that I couldn't hold on until she left. I went to my favorite stall -- last one on the wall to the left -- pulled down my pants, copped a squat, and cultivated patience. The poop was knocking at the door. I sent a mental "Hang on a sec, I'm coming" to it, awaiting the flush that would signal that the unleashing could begin in moments. But there was no flush. I heard the shuffling of feet, what might have been a cough, but nothing else. "Hey, HELLO, I'd like to come out, please!" my poop signaled, emphasizing its message with a particularly painful intestinal squeeze. "Dude, hang on, wait 'til she's done," I pleaded silently, gritting my teeth. Still no flush. However, I thought I detected a faint whimper. A few seconds later, I heard a very definite -- and anguished -- whisper. "Why isn't she going?" Oh, no. I buried my head in my hands as I realized what was happening. For the first time in a public venue, I was encountering another Shameful Shitter. Like me, she had come to what she thought was a safe dumping haven, only to have me rudely intrude. The trouble was that even armed with this somewhat reassuring thought, I was DAMNED if I was going to poop in front of an audience. And the further trouble was: apparently so was she. I don't know how much time truly passed, but the seconds yawned into a chasm of eternity as we set forth into battle. Our vibes clashed like the mightiest of titans as each of us willed the other to cave, to send up the rattling trumpet sound of splashing stinky defeat. She was truly a warrior princess, I thought in reluctant admiration, as my lower intestine sent off ripping pains that threatened to do damage to my digestive tract the likes of which I had never known. But I was a goddess, the Ruler of the Rectum, and I vowed that I would know victory this day. Eventually a frantic wail came from my opponent's side. "Oh, PLEASE would you get the fuck out of here so I can SHIT?" "Go to the other bathroom!" I was in pain and out of witty retorts. "Fuck you, I was here first!" "I know you didn't just walk in before I came in so don't give me that!" "Oh, DAMMIT!" And like a choir of angels -- okay, more like the growl of diesel semis -- came the sizzling popping sounds of an anus gone uncontrolled and wild. Exultant in my victory, I too let loose, and together we filled the room with beautiful digestive music and blissful sighs -- not to mention truly vile stenches. When it was all over, my opponent said, in a weary voice, "Will you at least stay in the stall until I leave? Your voice doesn't sound familiar, so we'll forget this happened, okay?" "Okay." I am a gracious winner. She sighed again, flushed, came out, washed her hands, and left. Not wanting to be blamed for the funky miasma left behind -- even if I was partially responsible for it -- I then vigorously sprayed the room with Lysol. As I was spraying, another woman came in, her nose wrinkling as the smell hit her. "It was like that when I came in," I blithely informed her. "I almost passed out." "No kidding," the woman agreed and proceeded to the stall. To this day, I don't know who my opponent was. But I salute her, as her will not to let people hear her poop was almost as strong as mine. The operative word, of course, being "almost." Post new comment
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