It was Monday, June 20th, 2005. Here in Adelaide, South Australia, that means it's winter. This particular day was bitterly cold, with continuous rain/drizzle and a cold, biting wind. The perfect scene for a horror story, I suppose.

I had decided to get up early to complete some errands in the city and possibly catch a movie. While I was pissed off with the weather, I finally decided it would not prevent me from completing my chores. I rushed to get myself ready to make the 11:30 AM showing of Batman Begins; and in doing so, I didn't get a chance to have any breakfast. Mistake number one. After heading out the door, I caught a bus into the city, supposing that it would be impossible to find parking on such a rainy day. Mistake number two.

Since it was already 11:25 by the time I arrived, I decided that my "chores" could wait until after the movie. I quickly ran to buy myself a drink, a packet of marshmallows, and some KFC nuggets. Mistake number three. Hauling all this stuff in my backpack, I purchased the movie ticket and entered the 90% empty cinema just in time. When the lights went down, I started snacking on the bounty I had craftily snuck in. I munched away and thoroughly enjoyed the film. What happened afterwards, however, I did not enjoy.

It was around two o'clock when the movie finished. I proceeded to do the mad shuffle between stores to buy what I needed. I was about halfway through when I realized I might need to poo. I dismissed it, since I can usually hold it in, thinking I could wait until I got home. Unfortunately, this poo was accompanied by a pain that reminded me of the Nu-Lax experience and was seriously hampering my ability to walk. A confrontation was inevitable; but I was unable to drive home due to mistake number two. I was trapped in the city.

Since I am quite Shameful, I try NEVER to poo away from home unless it is absolutely unavoidable; but if it IS absolutely unavoidable, I always poo at a store called David Jones.

David Jones is one of the most expensive department store chains in Australia. Its shoppers consist mainly of wealthy people and old women wasting their husbands' retirement funds. David Jones has -- or had -- the most exquisite toilet facilities I had ever seen (code named: Xanadu). As testament to their washrooms' greatness, and as proof of my sheer stubbornness and perverse desire for a reasonable public shitting place, consider that I managed to walk the two-hundred-or-so-meters to David Jones in extreme agony, and then proceed up two flights of escalators to reach it. Xanadu had always been immaculate on previous visits, and I often considered it the Holy Grail of public toilets. This time, however, things were different.

Xanadu is divided into two rooms. Upon entering, you come to the first room with the washbasins, the blow dryers, and another door at the far end. This leads to the second room, which is huge and has one full-wall mirror and what looks like marble-stone floors and walls. It contains three stalls, one porcelain urinal, and large-leaved potted plants in two corners. There's even a sort of slightly-dim mood lighting and music, usually classical, playing overhead. I always liked the added degree of privacy of being separated from the people washing their hands.

Each of the stalls is fairly luxurious in terms of space, with thick, modern-looking wood-laminate doors. When I entered, the first two stalls were occupied; my heart leapt at the fact that stall #3, next to the far wall, was least empty. But then my heart sank when I saw WHY this stall was empty: there was a huge skidmark in the bowl and a ball of toilet paper right in the bottom of the bend. I tried to flush it away (I was in agony by this point) but all that did was make the water rise up. It did not overflow, fortunately; but the bowl was close to full.

I stood there panicking, not knowing what to do, as the water slowly but mercifully disappeared, leaving only the toilet paper blockage behind. At least the skid-mark was gone.

Determined not to become a turd terrorist and leave behind an unmovable stool, I stood in stall #3, grasping at my guts and concentrating on not getting a hernia. After what seemed like an eternity, the guy in stall #1 left, followed a mere five seconds later by guy in #2. As soon as I heard them blow-drying their hands, I unlocked my door and did a deranged lunatic run to stall #1.

"Excellent. Looks like the Xanadu I remember," I thought. Unfortunately, when I closed the door I realized there was no hook on the back -- meaning I had nowhere to hang my backpack or my rather voluminous coat. I exited again and shuffled into stall #2. Upon opening the door, I saw stained toilet paper on the floor and skidmarks on the seat. Horrified, I decided that, despite it all, stall #3 would be my best option -- there was no way in HELL I would put the backpack or my coat on the floor of stall #1, not even in Xanadu.

I shuffled out for the third time and back into stall #3 like some kind of obsessive-compulsive toilet gremlin. I proceeded to lay down at least three layers of protective toilet paper on the seat as well as a few layers of anti-splash. I should clarify at this point, I guess, that it wasn't an urgent can't-hold-it-in feeling; more of an oh-my-God-I-feel-like-I've-eaten-a-rose-bush feeling. Anyway, the feeling forced me to sacrifice my anti-turd-terrorist ideals and take a dump in stall #3.

What happened next was pure bliss.

The turd that came out seemed to go on forever. It was soft, slippery, and accentuated by an extremely pungent odor that made me quietly gasp. Obviously, because of the blockage, I couldn't even get in a courtesy flush. The toilet paper I had laid down to prevent splash-damage, coupled with the blockage, had created a shortage of water in the bowl. I don't know how many people have experienced this phenomenon, but let me assure you: dunking your log into water decreases its smell by a factor of about a hundred.

As my arse finished behaving like a stepped-on tube of brown toothpaste, the pain in my guts instantly abated. I guess it's unhealthy to wait until 11:40 AM-ish to break your fast with KFC chicken nuggets and marshmallows washed down with Coke... I mean, come on, who knew? I looked down and realized that I actually hadn't taken a dump the previous day -- the sesame seeds from Sunday's hotdog bun were visible in my rather long, pale brown turd.

As I sat there with my sphincter winking, making sure there weren't any round two contenders, a mysterious new figure entered my Xanadu.

I clenched my arse muscles in shame and sat there in wide-eyed silence as the mystery man moved to the last stall -- mine. Upon seeing that it was locked, he walked back to stall #1. I didn't move, too terrified to make a sound, embarrassed by having to poop in public and for potentially being blamed for the clogged toilet, never mind the possibility that my poop might have stunk up the whole room (at this point, I couldn't tell as I had gotten used to it). I listened fearfully to the loud, echoing sounds of this man removing his pants and sitting and then grunting, plopping, and splashing. It was like listening to one of those "guess the sound" competitions they have on the radio -- it was as clear and unmistakable as if it was in Dolby Digital 5.1 Surround. I had never heard anyone literally grunt and strain before; and this man was really going for it.

After a few minutes he stopped, and it was silent. The music playing over the speakers had stopped as well. In that brief ten-second moment of complete silence between songs, the man in stall #1 (who from now on I will call Arse-Trumpet) let out one of the loudest, echoing, bowl-shattering farts I have heard in my life.

Ironically, when the next song came on (which, unusually, was pop music), it was Kylie Minogue singing Can't Get You Out of my Head.

I had been too ashamed to move, lest this man catch me and identify me while I washed my hands. Now I was not only embarrassed of what I had done, but embarrassed for him for what he had done.

Utterly determined not to sacrifice my secret identity after already having spent a good fifteen minutes to preserve it, I continued to sit and wait for Arse-Trumpet to leave. But Arse-Trumpet must have been thinking the same thing, especially after his own spectacular display. I kind of felt sorry for him. If I had had such an experience, I would have probably left the store via the ventilation ducts and lived the rest of my life in the city sewers, away from society. Nevertheless, it WASN'T me; but *I* wasn't coming out until the area was clear. I continued to sit there, thinking about what to do.

Literally ten minutes after zero hour (after his grunting and arse-blasting cannon fire had ended), this guy still hadn't left. "Is he dead?" I wondered. "Did he fart out his intestines? Did the smell dissolve his lungs? Maybe he's waiting for me to leave so he can follow and kill me to make sure I don't tell anyone about this..."

Silence continued.

"Right. That's it!" I thought. Arse-Trumpet was obviously waiting for me to leave so he could exit in secrecy. If he thought I was leaving first, he had another think coming! No one is more stubborn than me!

Looking back, I guess it's kind of anti-climactic; perhaps you just had to be there. But the utter stupidity of the both of us just sitting there in complete defiance of one another was really... something.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity (actually only about fifteen minutes beyond zero hour), I heard Arse-Trumpet pulling toilet paper from the roll and wiping, conceding defeat. He quickly flushed and exited Xanadu, leaving me completely alone. After waiting a further minute or two to make sure he wasn't trying to perform a stakeout outside, I got up, put my backpack on, put my coat under my arm, and prepared to run.

As I flushed, the water rose and the toilet paper started to rise with it. The bowl filled, but I don't think it overflowed. I'm not sure because I ran out to wash my hands as fast as I could, lest another person come in and expose me.

I think it's obvious that I truly am a Shameful Shitter, and somewhat of a germophobe as well. Turd terrorism is something that I truly abhor, especially as it almost deprived me of the use of my beloved Xanadu. Today I consider the saying "one man's terrorist is another man's freedom fighter." On the day of this story, my fellow PoopReporters, I assure you I was fighting for freedom.

In the end, I like to think that I was like Batman. Arse-Trumpet hadn't seen my shoes because the doors were too low. He hadn't heard me utter a single sound or make any kind of movement. As far as he was concerned, I was invisible and possibly didn't exist. Perhaps if I overcome my Shamefulness one day -- like Batman confronting his fear of bats -- I'll "use fear against those who prey on the fearful" and become Buttman. I'll fight evil turd terrorists with my amazing Buttmobile... and throw turd-shaped ninja-stars at them... yeah, that'll learn 'em!

-- MegaDump

P.S. To the unfortunate individual who had to clean stall #3, I sincerely apologize for what I have done. I know the emotional scars will never heal, but I hope the physical ones do. If I weren't such a coward, I'd repay you... somehow.