For someone like me, this was a nightmare: I used the Meggy Dee's washroom for number two.
First off, you have to realize: I can piss anywhere. In an alley, a public swimming pool, even in the stench-infested washrooms in the pedestrian subway near Oak Street Beach under Lake Shore Drive in Chicago. But when it comes to shitting, I have to do it at home. I mean, I plan everything around my bowel movements. Everything is timed so that I dump the masterload on my home turf. I won't even use the crapper at my mom's house, and that's the home I grew up in!
I was on one of my famous road trips. The usual buddies: Brad, Scorch and a case of Bud Light. We even stopped along the Dan Ryan Expressway to drain our veins. But now I was downtown, and that urge to unload the internal digestive intestine was a'hankerin'.
My emergency reflexes kicked in. Look for a hotel -- preferably a four-star one. Those all have plush shitters that can accommodate even the deadliest of dumps.
There was a Quality Inn off the Inner Drive, but there was no parking. I guess I could have stopped the car, headed for the lobby, and let Brad or Scorch wheel my Cutlass ‘round the block a couple of times; but these boys were loaded. At least a twelve-pack apiece, on an empty stomach. I don't need them crashing my ride.
So I headed to the Meggy Dee's on Ontario, in River North. I pulled into the parking lot and ran into the men's room. Thank God: the toilet stall had doors. At least I'd have privacy. Plus, no one else was in there. It couldn't have been better: an empty facility with a private stall, and a LARGE handicapped shitter to boot!
Now, normally at home I relish the time I spend on the throne disposing of my meals. In most instances, I read magazines, newspapers, or my mail. I usually take extra time, just enjoying the solitude of losing weight the natural way. But a public facility is far from relaxing. I'm there to hang and cut that rope as quick as possible.
And wouldn't you know it, just when I get comfortable on the white porcelain fixture and make it about halfway through my gassive release, the john becomes occupied with three people! You heard right, three: they all entered simultaneously. But they ain't there to wash their hands, piss, or do anything that one usually associates with a restroom. No, they're there to smoke.
Now, I know this is a smoke-free restaurant. That means no smoking at the tables, in the kitchen, in the office, etc. Only outside. Period. But these guys apparently could give a damn about that city ordinance. So they're in there smoking and conversing like this is a tavern, and here I sit behind this thin, makeshift wall with a huge log only halfway out my ass.
It was if time stood still. I couldn't even pinch this brown turd off. It just hung there, like midway constipation.
I started to sweat. I was probably the master of stench at the time, but these guys blowing all that smoke probably didn't even notice.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity (though was probably only three or four minutes), a young Meggy Dee's employee walks in and tells them, in his squeaky fast-food vernacular, "You guys can't smoke in here. Please put them out."
I thought these guys were going to give this minimum-wage misfit the third degree. But they complied, putting their cigarettes out and leaving. As they exited, I heard one of the smokers comment: "If there wasn't someone in there taking a dump, I would have rammed that McDonald's pussy's head down that toilet."
I then hurriedly finished my duty and exited amongst a thick cloud of smoke.