After winning a huge but contentious lawsuit settlement for a client, my father began designing his dream house. I had just turned twelve, and I remember that construction took exactly nine months. We moved in just in time to spend Christmas in our new surroundings.
The foreman of the construction crew was Mac, a lean, rangy fellow with white overalls and a perennial five o'clock shadow. He was in charge of supervising the other workers, and he was the last to remain when all but the finishing touches had been applied to the project.
On one of the last days before move-in, my father drove my mother, my brother and I out to the site to do a last-minute inspection. Although we expected Mac to be there, he was not, evidently having left for the day. But he had left a little unexpected and inexplicable Christmas gift for us, and perhaps that was the reason he didn't want to confront us.
It seems the porta-potty the crew had been using during the project had been removed from the site, leaving Mac without his usual defecatory convenience. Walking into the master bathroom, we discovered how Mac had resolved his obviously urgent need earlier in the day. Although the water had not yet been turned on, Mac had chosen to download his very large (at least ten inches) and now horrifically odiferous turd in the dry-as-dust virgin toilet. He had also resorted to wiping himself with the daily newspaper. The whole mess was languishing there like an impromptu contribution from one of Santa's mischievous elves.
My father was the first to discover the evidence. In his best courtroom manner, and while holding his nose, he pointed in the general direction. "Exhibit A!"
Of course, after a brief glimpse, we all high-tailed it out of there. I frankly wondered how that mess was going to be cleaned up, clinging to the side of a waterless bowl as it was. In fact, I do not know who did assume the task of cleaning it, but I suspect my father contacted Mac and directed him to do so -- because when we moved in a few days later, everything was clean and sweet-smelling again.
After all, it was Christmas, and Mac had been naughty, rather than nice.
-- The Big Wiper