POST I

Somebody's ass exploded in our bathroom. I walked in there yesterday and was immediately smacked in the face with the odor. "Gee," I thought to myself, "Somebody treated this bathroom like Hitler treated the Jews." (And I don't think it's said enough, because Hitler is this larger-than-life type guy where he's more myth than man, but he was a man, and more than that, he was a douchebag. I mean, can YOU think of a bigger douchebag than Hitler? No. I didn't think so. And yet, I don't hear people calling Hitler a douchebag nearly often enough. I think every time you mention Hitler, there should be a little asterisk after his name, and when you follow that asterisk down to the bottom of the page, there should be another little asterisk, and then in italics: "Douchebag." That should be his legacy. He should be inexorably and inextricably linked with the word "douchebag".)

I fought my way through an odor so thick you could beat it into pancakes with a sack full of kittens puppies kittens and puppies, and arrived at a stall. I pushed the door open and my brain was immediately challenged with what I saw.

"Is that a undershirt? With poop on it? Did somebody poop in their undershirt? Why is there poop on an undershirt? Was somebody using their undershirt as underwear? That's a lot of poop for one shirt. Did they use the undershirt as toilet paper? No, there's toilet paper right there. Why would somebody poop in their shirt?"

My eyes were drifting as I was thinking; and they eventually settled on the full toilet in front of me. Full. Filled. Cresting the invisible plane of the top of the seat. An inhuman amount of poo.

I have no idea what happened, and I don't really want to know, but I can't possibly conceive of a situation other than an entire football team descending like a swarm of locusts on a Taco Bell -- America's only fast-food/laxative restaurant -- only to stop in our bathroom thirty minutes later to deposit the end result and then deciding to run an unholy feces-train on the poor toilet, and at some point an innocent white undershirt must have gotten caught in the melee. And I feel bad for the janitor, but that shit has been there for at least twenty-four hours now, and it needs to go.

POST I, REPRISED

UPDATE: The undershirt is now flopped over the rim of the trashcan. The odor is present in the hallway. Flushing does nothing.

POST II

I didn't want to have to write about the toilets at work again. I really didn't. But it seems like someone is conspiring against me and my right to go to the bathroom without having to wade through a pile of someone else's feces.

After last week's "Hardy Boys and the Case of the Erupting Toilet-Volcano," I figured that I wouldn't have to write about the bathroom again for another two or ten years. But this morning I was foiled.

I walked into the bathroom and found one of the two stalls occupied. Coincidentally, the stall that had been so thoroughly violated last time was available, so I opened the stall door expecting to see naught but boring tiles and an empty toilet. I don't know why I could ever hope for something as simple and hygienic as that. Instead I found a soup of thick, brown water and a critical mass of toilet tissue. It's okay -- I'm gagging right now, too.

The toilet had been in perfect functioning condition since the exorcism on Thursday and the power-washing on Friday morning, so the incident from last Monday seems unrelated to the incident today -- except that someone has now brutally molested this hapless toilet twice in the past two weeks.

Learning my lesson from last week, I decided to not stick around and let my eyes wander to find who knows what kind of unholy physics-destroying, gravity-defying fecal spatter-trajectories had painted the walls after Satan's ass-cannon had blown itself apart in localized firestorm of pandemonium and digested SpaghettiOs, so I made my way to the bathrooms upstairs.

Upon arriving, I found the first toilet had been peed on. "But ACW," you smugly say to yourself, because I'm writing this at 10:47 AM and you're reading this at some point after that and it would be impossible for us to talk unless you've somehow mastered the use of the space-time continuum and if you have why haven't you shared this ability with me yet, jerk? "But ACW, urine is sterile. You could have just wiped those few drops off the seat."

Let me tell you something, Smartypants, there is not enough toilet paper in the world to wipe up that stall. I don't know how someone got their horse into the second floor of an office building, but that horse has terrible aim. Unless, of course, that horse was aiming for the seat, walls, floor, and everything else but the bowl of the toilet -- because it was everywhere. You can sit in a swamp of somebody else's urine if you want. That's not how I roll.

The stall next to the golden-shower-on-steroids had also been destroyed by someone, and at this point I'm happy to report that it had been simply clogged with unused toilet paper. Clean, white toilet paper was all that was in the bowl, and it was bone-dry. No one had stolen a metric ton of steaming manure, stuffed it with dynamite, and used it to speed-plaster the walls of the bathroom. Nobody went on a magical crap-happy pooping-spree, leaving progressively more bizarre articles of clothing wrapped around their own feces in some scat-freak's perverse version of an Easter Egg Hunt. Nobody ate an entire box of Maximum Strength Turbo-Lax and used the resulting gastrointestinal race riot to Jackson Pollock every flat surface of the bathroom. It's still disconcerting that someone would go to all these lengths to irritate me, but there are about sixteen men's toilets in this building, and I doubt that someone could destroy them all at once.

This is not a challenge.