I am somewhat politically active. In Austin, where I live, if some thing goes wrong (a bad law, a pre-emptive war, a stolen election), we all show up at the capitol building to protest. One such occasion was when I showed up to protest the verdict that let the cops who beat Rodney King off the hook. The verdict was a complete surprise. I was eating my lunch of spicy Italian sausage, potatoes, and beer when the verdict was announced on television. I knew that I wanted to go and vent my frustrations, so I scarfed my food, downed my beer, and headed out the door.
Upon arriving at the capitol, I began to regret not using the bathroom before I left the house. The familiar rumblings were starting in the engine of my dump truck. I knew that I would soon need to drop a load of scrap. I also knew, from previous experience, that the capitol building had a very nice bathroom on its cellar level.
As expected, I found an empty and pristine public convenience. If you ever need to take a shit in downtown Austin, go to the capitol building. It is the best. It is a huge room with many stalls, vaulted ceilings, and nice fixtures. Though it does have something of an echo to it.
I unzipped my backpack and got out my reading material. I could tell that this would be a nice, long, leisurely shit. I blew ass almost immediately. The smell was rather ripe, but I enjoy my stench all the more when it is thus. Just as I was settling in, the door to the bathroom opened and I heard the high-pitched squeals of little boys.
There were about five of them, and they were jabbering about various things as they went about turning all the faucets on and testing the echo affect of the room. My stomach sank. This was not a comfortable shitting environment.
And soon the conversation turned to the topic of my stench.
"What the fuck?" "You smell that?" "GOD DAMN!"
And so on. By now I was sweating bullets and trying to hold in the next noisy, stinky barrage that was pushing at the gates of my lower duodenum. And just when I thought that things could not get any worse, there was a banging on the door of my stall. I could see little Nikes standing there, with little ankles sticking out of them.
"God damn, mister! Your booty stinks!"
"Great," I thought to myself. “Now what do I do?" I seriously considered reaching into the toilet and flinging my excrement at them like a crazed chimpanzee. Of course, this would have been I very bad idea. I could just see the capitol police and the Texas Rangers hauling me out of the building and the press snapping pictures of me. The next day's headline would read: "TURD-TOSSING TERRORIST TURNS ON TOTS."
So I gnashed my teeth and bore the brunt of the taunting. My sphincter seemed to sense the tension as well and did not let out the expected barrage -- and I was glad of that, because it would have only lead to more taunting, door banging, and exclamations of disgust being yelled at me. Eventually, they grew tired (and probably disgusted) with this game, and left me alone in my misery.
No more shit was forthcoming. I wiped my ass with a few lengths of toilet paper and then wiped my face of sweat with about half a roll. Looking both ways as I exited, I left the building and hightailed it back home, content to drop the rest of my scrap in my own porcelain dump, and to yell my frustrations over the Rodney King verdict at the television set.
