Over the past eighteen months, 870 pit latrines -- that is, basic but functional and sanitary outdoor toilets -- have been erected in this remote part of Africa. It's all thanks to the charity CORD, which came up with the idea of "twinning" toilets in the affluent west with those being built in Burundi.

Here's how it works: for around $100 donation to the charity, you can have your own personal porcelain throne twinned with a specific outhouse deep in the bush. Its exact location can be even tracked down with Google Maps, so you can keep up with their progress and use.

One of the first toilet twinners, the Bishop of Coventry, invited the press around to his house to inspect his crapper and a photo of its twin in Rutana. "It's a bog standard idea with a great message," he said, "Forty percent of the world's population don't have access to a toilet and it's hard to imagine what that's like."

It sounds a good idea. There must be many people now who have a blown-up photo of a remote African dunny proudly hung on the wall above their commodes.

The popular beverage has cranked out several versions of Mountain Dew with much success. Code Red still remains a popular alternative to regular Mountain Dew. Livewire is still a recent soda that fans swear by. Pitch Black I and II were short-lived summer beverages that rocked my tongue but didn't catch on enough to stay for good. And who could forget the stunt they pulled running three new types of Mountain Dew for a few months last year? Who else could have done such a thing and make it work so well? I mean, it was called "Dewmocracy," for God's sake!

Recently, Mountain Dew has released two new flavors promoting World of Warcraft. Of their names, I am unaware. I guess know the red/orange one is called Game Fuel and was once released before. The blue one, which could also share the same name for all I know, is the one that has captured my taste buds. It is absolutely delicious. When I drink it, my eyes flood with tears and my stomach leaps with approval. I can't help but smile upon sipping my favorite new drink.

Unfortunately, there is a visual downside to the new soda. This siren of a beverage lures you in with its blend of fruit punch, ginseng, and the aftertaste of the good 'ol Mountain Dew -- only to have a significant effect on your poop.

I had this drink for the first time about a month ago. I had one for my first break and then another on my lunch. Almost instantly I noticed that my poop had turned blue-green. I started to think back at what I had eaten and concluded that nothing could have done that. I recalled my liquid intake and knew I had had no Kool-Aid (I'd once had a very blue poop experience after an incident with blue Kool-Aid). Then I had that AH-HA! moment. The Mountain Dew.

But I didn't know who to ask. At that point, no one I knew had tried the new soda and I had no certainty that the blue-green poop was a direct result of the new Mountain Dew.

So I continued to try my new favorite beverage and my poop continued to be blue-green.

When my wife and I later went up to her mother's house, I saw that her little sister was enjoying can after can of the new blue Mountain Dew. Of course, I had my share of the soda that night, as did my wife. So I waited until tomorrow to see what would happen.

Sure enough, my wife freaked out on the can, worried about her green shit. I knew immediately that it had to be the Mountain Dew.

So I've since then severely limited my intake of this new soda. I'm not sure if the soda does anything else to you, but I don't think it's good if you drink something and it comes out of you in a similar color. What are we getting out of it?

But should you want blue-green poop, jut down a bottle or two of this new blue Mountain Dew and enjoy!

A portion of our entry application is a team name and explanation of why we should be included in the event. I would like to make an entry that is meant to raise awareness of Crohn's Disease, Colitis, and IBD. With permission, I would like to use PoopReport as a point of interest of our entry.

The event is typically pretty rowdy and fun. I would like to use it as a lighthearted platform for the cause. We would solicit donations to the Crohn's and Colitis Foundation of America, but I think primarily it would just be some good advertising for the Foundation (and your website, if you want it).

I am not asking for any kind of sponsorship financially (although we would definitely take it if offered :-). I would just like to see if you would lend us your permission to use the PoopReport name and likeness for our car entry. I would also probably borrow some tidbits of funny stuff from the website.

We will be racing in the event even if it we don't deck it out in "Got Guts?" regalia. Funny and imaginative car decorations are encouraged, and I just thought it would be an easy way for us to do something charitable with our entry.

The event we will likely race in is at Carolina Motorsports Park, in Kershaw, South Carolina, September 12-13, 2009.

I look forward to your comments or suggestions!

Editor's note: Naturally, I think this is a great idea. I wrote back to Chris and offered to send him a handful of PoopReport schwag. I also asked him if there's anything we PoopReporters can do to help. Here is his response.

Dave,

That sounds great. I will be in touch. Stickers and graphics will be very useful.

I would love it if the PoopReport community could help me with a witty description of why we should be in the event.

I will have a website up eventually at Number2racing.com!

My first experience with this toilet required me to do the old pull-up-your-pants-and-hope-you-don't-get-shit-on-your-underwear-while-you-go-to-another-stall routine. My friend... wasn't so lucky.

This guy was the sort who had no issues with telling embarrassing stories. One day, he told me, he entered the stall from Hell and sat down and did his normal business. As often happened with this cursed toilet, when he did his courtesy flush it backed up -- but he wasn't aware of it, because he was reading. Soon after the flush, he suddenly felt, as he put it, "something cold on my ass." He looked down in horror as, as he put it, "the logs started spilling out of the bowl into my pants."

He was stuck on an overflowing toilet with pants full of shit and shitty paper.

I asked him what he did.

"I didn't know what to do at first. I realized that the only thing I could do was pull up my pants and get out of the office as soon as possible.

"I lifted up my legs and shook the logs out onto the floor. When I got all out that I could, I pulled up my pants and made a beeline to the door. I was planning on simply leaving, going home, changing, and explaining later. But as I was going out the door I met my manager coming in, and I was forced to explain not only what had happened and why I was leaving, but endure his looks at the floor of the stall where I had dumped my logs.

"I never used that toilet again."

At that point in my life I was a single sailor out to see the world; but since I was temporarily unable to actually visit a foreign country, I tried to at least date someone from a far-off land. At the time, I was working my way through Indochina. I'd already dated a Vietnamese lady and had acquired a taste for Vietnamese food, particularly pho, which is a beef/rice noodle soup usually spiced up pretty hot. The rule for pho was if you didn't have to wipe your forehead and blow your nose while eating it, you weren't doing it right. I'd eaten pho a bunch of times with no distress, even as spicy as it was. My twenty-one-year-old colon was in peak condition, able to withstand whatever I tossed at it (except for a bout of Samagoo Squirts in P.I., that is). That being said, I wasn't dating Vietnamese anymore; I'd taken a cue from Tricky Dick and snuck across the border to Laos.

The girl I was seeing was nice and we enjoyed each other's company. I enjoyed meeting her family and hearing about their country. I also enjoyed the food. I ate all kinds of Laotian food and loved it all, no matter how spicy. The hotter, the better.

Then the girl learned I liked pho. She invited me to her home and said she was going to fix me the Laotian version of pho, promising I would forget all about the Vietnamese version. Oh, if I only knew what I soon faced, because, Dear Reader, I haven't -- nor will I ever -- forget.

I ate with her and her family. We all had the same food. The soup was delicious and as good or better to the pho I'd had. In modern terms, I'd compare it to a 2 Live Crew song -- as nasty as it wanted to be. Hot, spicy, with meatballs made from ground critter of some type, it was just good. I ate it all up and licked the bowl.

Got back to the barracks, hit the rack about eleven, no trouble noted, no indication whatsoever that my own personal Day That Will Live In Infamy was but a couple of hours away.

0300: I awoke in a panic. I did not wake up and gradually feel the need to go -- I was unconscious one second and running for my life the next. I shot out of my rack, opened the door, crossed the hallway, and ran into the head and straight to the first shitter in the line. I was just able to get my skivvies down before Mount Shitsuvius erupted.

As the first attack wave hit the beach, I knew this battle would be epic. I sensed right away the presence of chemical weapons in my poo-goo, because my brown eye burned like Dante's inferno.

The duration of poo-goo shooting out my poo-flue was inconsequential; the problem was the incendiary chemical agent now coating my brown eye rendered my tender touch-hole into an eternal flame of non-stop burning agony. It burned so bad I couldn't help but moan as I gritted my teeth. I did NOT want to attract undo attention (translation: any attention at all), but my ring of fire burned so intensely that I was moaning louder and louder, totally against my fast-fading will.

I don't remember how long the Mount Shitsuvius eruption lasted; what I do remember is that when the flow stopped, my asshole burned just as bad, if not worse, than it did when the first flow of molten poo-goo lava spewed.

The barracks had a firewatch -- that is, a junior sailor whose job is to patrol the barracks and keep them from burning down. The firewatch on duty in my barracks had heard my SOS moan and was now outside the line of shitters listening to my fire rage uncontrollably. He asked if I was okay. Hell no, I wasn't okay, but I couldn't do anything but moan a few syllables of blather. I wiped (no help, no friggin' help at all) and burst out of my stall.

I must have startled him because all he could say was, "Shit, man, what died in you?"

I HAD to cool the raging inferno. I had to have relief and I had to have it RIGHT THEN. I ran into the showers to the first shower valve I saw and turned the cold water on full stream.

The shower was your standard fifteen-man open shower unit: no curtains, no stalls, just a big room with fifteen showerheads, some soap holders, and a drain in the middle. I didn't care a whit at this point: I broke myself open like a shotgun and pointed my burning breech of a touchhole to the nozzle and spread my cheeks with both hands.

The size of the shower room produced a decent pitch of echo, decent enough to amplify my moans of pain and attract the firewatch from the barracks next door. Now I had two firewatches standing there witnessing my most intense pain and embarrassment. Could it get any worse?

The burning sensation let up, but just enough for me to lower my moaning volume. I had to get the resins/oils/whatever that incendiary chemical was on my asshole off my asshole, and quickly.

I looked at the soap holder in the shower -- nobody had left a bar of soap. Damn! Shit, man, I was desperate! Screw it: spying some soap goo left over in one of the soap holders, I used my fingernails to scrape a wad and smear it over my burning battlefield. I mixed the soap wad with the shower water and made a lather that, thankfully, began to sooth my aching, burning beast bung.

My moans began to decrease in volume and I was able to calm myself a bit in order to take stock and formulate a shitrep. My skivvies were still in the stall where I'd abandoned them (no chemical agents released therein), my t-shirt was soaked as I was in way too much pain to remove it before I broke open my breech to the nozzle stream, and I had these two asshole firewatches staring at me with blank looks, resembling a herd of cows staring at a passing train. I looked at them and quite calmly -- and rightfully, I might add -- asked then both to use a little discretion and keep the last half hour's events a discrete memory.

Thing One kid asks me, "You mean, you don't want us to tell anybody about what just happened, right?"

"Yeah," I replied. "That's about the gist of discretion and all that."

Thing Two asshole didn't miss a beat. "Fuck that, dude," he shot back. "That shit was way too funny! I'm tellin' everybody!"

I hope his next ship sinks under him.

My oldest brother lives about an hour from the house where I live with my parents. My sister, mother, brother, and myself all piled into the car for the drive out. As usual, I didn't eat beforehand and loaded up on my prescribed pills, just in case.

The ride out was smooth. I had my mp3 player blasting and quietly drifted in and out of consciousness. Upon arriving, I still attempted to avoid eating, but eventually I gave in and finally ate extremely plain, boring, and bland things.

I was doing well. When it came time to leave, we piled into the car once again for the drive home. I sat with my mp3 again, relaxing. I suppose around the halfway mark, I let my guard down.

I was listening to a cover of Blue Oyster Cult's Don't Fear The Reaper when the initial rumblings began. I instantly began to calm myself down, figuring it was just some nerves. The song should have been called Don't Fear the Crapper; then it may have provided some sort of comfort. Soon enough, I got that sort of split-second pop feeling, and my stomach began pounding. It felt like Mike Tyson was preparing for a fight on my colon, a jump-rope contest utilizing my intestines, boy scouts earning their knot-tying merit badges with my stomach.

I was ready to panic. I waited as long as possible before notifying my mother. She had no idea where I could go, but luckily, we were in an area my sister regularly passed through en route to work. She pulled over at a place where she used to get lunch, and I hurried out, taking off into the store with a strange sort of dance that only colon rush-hour could create, my mom following swiftly after. Thankfully, the bathroom was vacant and I hurried in and relieved myself.

I wish I could remember some of the more intricate details (I know we all love them), but I must have blocked them out. It wasn't particularly messy, thankfully. When I had finally finished and cleaned up, the smell was enough to gag a maggot.

As I was about to flush, I looked down and noticed that someone had dropped a can of spray or disinfectant into the toilet before I had gotten in there. In my frantic action, I didn't notice as I hastily had gotten down to business. The aerosol can was now buried under a small mountain. I flushed, but of course, it clogged on the can. Cursing, I looked around for something to at least spray to dim the scent of Satan. Rifling through the cabinet and closet, I finally procured a spray can of air freshener and held the button on it for a good fifteen seconds. I turned to leave, saying a prayer to myself for the poor soul who had to retrieve that aerosol can. I opened the door, and my mother looked at me concerned.

"Let's go," I grimaced through tight lips. We quickly moved out and got in the car and pulled away."

There was a line forming," she informed me. "But I told them you were sick and would be a while, and they went back to sit down." I said a prayer of thanks this time, glad I didn't have to take that walk of shame.

I don't believe my mother actually knew how to deal with my shitting issues. I think I really hated to get dirty. I knew that dry paper just didn't work to actually "clean" you and I didn't want to have skidmarks in my white briefs. So, unless it was absolutely necessary, I didn't shit.

When I was forced to take a shit, there was the cleaning problem. Until somewhere, sometime, someone handed me a wet washcloth and I cleaned my ass with it. Yep, I generated a really shitty, smelly washcloth each time I took a shit. I vaguely remember knowing this wasn't right and actually hiding a nasty cloth behind the toilet once.

I remember one day realizing that there was water in the bowl beneath me and that if I dry-wiped and got as clean as I could and then flushed the offending matter away, I was left with a bowl of clean water, which I could use to wet the toilet tissue. What a relief! No more shame and shitty washcloths! From that point on, I have, to this day, used the dry/wet wipe method, and can proudly say that I NEVER had to deal with skidmarks in my underwear. My wife has never seen skidmarks in my shorts. Gone was my fear of shitting!

But, before that glorious moment, there was one incident that I remember to this day.

I know I must have been six or seven at the time because I was dressed for school. My mother worked as a waitress in a small diner in our small town. I often ate at the diner early before being taken to school. This ominous morning, I had my breakfast and then started feeling the urge to shit. I was away from home and didn't have any way of cleaning myself as this was before the dry/wet revelation I described above. I was in a panic because this shit seemed much different than normal. There was a lot of pressure.

I remember asking my mother to take me home and must have gotten some sort of brush-off, which was normal, as I was a horrible kid. I went outside and found myself with the herculean task of trying to hold it in. I wasn't winning the battle, and I knew it.

To make matters worse, there was an old man -- he must have been at least seventy-five -- who was trying to talk to me. I was standing with my back to the side of the restaurant facing the little service station next door. What with the heat, the pressure, and having to try to talk to an old man, I lost the battle and filled my shorts with some of the foulest, runniest shit known to me at the time. So much so that shit started oozing out of my briefs and down my leg, out the leg of my little boy shorts.

I was mortified, but still talking to the old man with shit running down my leg.

He knew something was wrong but must have been so old that he didn't know exactly what it was. He did notice the shit of my leg after a while, but must not have figured out what it was or smelled it because the next thing I knew, he was offering me his handkerchief to wipe my leg.

At this point my child brain must have overloaded with the shame and the guilt of having shat myself in front of someone I probably knew in a public place. I am pretty sure that I didn't accept the offer of the handkerchief, but I remember nothing else about the day. I do know that I can't remember any other incident of this sort in my childhood.

Thankfully, I must have discovered the dry/wet method soon after this incident. I suspect that my mother beat the crap out of me (no pun intended), which actually forced the discovery. It wasn't the last time I shat myself, but it was the last time I did it because I was purposefully holding it in.

I am now very much a Shameless Shitter. I can go anywhere there is a normal toilet and make as much noise and smell as necessary. Although port-a-lets are a different story.

The time came to get in the car and go stir-crazy for two more hours, so I stopped in the bathroom (my philosophy: ya never know when the next bathroom's gonna be available). Though I felt a bit of company knocking at the back door, it was not enough to bother. I figured I could hold it until we got home.

WHY?!?!

We got on the road, and shortly everyone but my dad and myself were sound asleep. The highway didn't seem too crowded for about twenty or thirty minutes, but then WHAM! Every car in Pennsylvania and New Jersey must've been parked on that highway, and we were at the end farthest away from the motherland.

We crawled a bit, then stopped, then crawled a bit, and then stopped. And then the steak baby in my belly started kicking a little, then wiggling, and then stopping for a brief moment before starting up again. After about an hour of creeping down the highway, we discovered that it was construction being done on three of the four lanes, and that people don't understand how to merge into one lane.

Before we had even reached the merging point, I started having those electric shock cramps in the undercarriage, and was in a cold sweat. I kept trying to fall asleep, thinking maybe I could ignore the pain and wake up back home and this hell would be over! Bu, my efforts were wasted. Every stabbing pain made me skooch and gave me goosebumps.

Finally, we got into the one moving lane, and were going pretty quickly past the construction as I silently cursed the Department of Transportation. Once we were past the construction the traffic cleared, and we were going at a much faster (and much happier) speed. Just then, the realization hit me: we had been in the car for well over two hours, but we still had more than an hour left to go, and I was wishing for an epidural or a mallet to the skull.

I kept myself together. Basically. Every five minutes, I'd clench my teeth, struggle to breathe around the behemoth in my belly, dig my nails into the seat, and change my position to keep the dinner log in.

After an eternity of doing this dance, I felt a ripping pain where God split me, and yelped. I was going into labor much earlier than I'd hoped. I started shouting at my dad, who was a little hard of hearing, "Dad, pull over!"

"What?"

"PULL OVER!"

"Why?"

"I need to go to the bathroom!"

"What?"

"BATH-ROOM!!!!!"

At this point, he and I looked at the side of the road and both realized that pulling over was not an option. The road had no shoulder -- instead, concrete walls lined either side.

He told me to hold it. Easy for him to say.

For the first and only time in my life, I began to hyperventilate. A combination of pain, panic, and a horrible realization that my father had just passed our exit.

"DAD! Where are you going?!?!"

"The next exit gets us there, too. Just calm down."

It was true, the next exit did get us there, but by the time we reached home I was in tears and had bent the cross I was wearing -- squeezing metal made me feel slightly better than squeezing the seat.

We pulled into the driveway and the whole family was awake, eagerly watching my normally quiet and cheerful self become this raging, angry, ready-to-kill beast. We hadn't even stopped in the driveway and I was out the door, waddling like I was being chased. The garage was opening very slowly that night, and while I was shuffling towards the slowly-opening door, I heard my father laughing. I flew through the house and dove into the bathroom. Door was locked, pants were down, butt was on the seat, and the delivery began in one fell swoop.

There really was no pushing or struggling involved. The only trick was that I had to keep from being propelled off the porcelain bus by the tremendous force. A deuce of biblical proportions, only to be followed by the River Jordan.

I stayed on that porcelain piece of heaven for a good half hour, just to be sure, and gingerly cleaned up while laughing like a crazed serial killer. I emerged from that bathroom limping, smiling, proud, relieved, and hungry again. Overall, a worrying experience, not to ever be re-attempted.

I am a huge alcoholic. When I am drinking, my urine is generally clear. However, when I am not drinking, it is extremely dark and stinky, and it has an even darker oily substance within the urine that I can watch settle onto
the bottom of the bowl.

Is this something caused by cirrhosis of the liver? Am I going to die soon? Just wondering...

It all happened last summer. I went with my mate over to China to visit a friend working in Shanghai and to tour around China's sights. After a couple of days of enjoying plenty of meat skewers from street vendors, liberally sprinkled with hot chili powder, and after mistakenly drinking a pint of water from a public fountain, I soon got acquainted with Montezuma's (or should I rather say Confucius'?) Revenge. However, it was nothing serious, and I was always able to hold it back until reaching my friend's toilet. Man, was it a relief to shoot out a generous dose of asshole-scorching brown matter while overlooking Shanghai's world-famous skyline.

On the second week of our trip, however, things would look much different. We hit Beijing. One night, one of my mate's acquaintances, who worked for a Spanish bank in Beijing, was supposed to take us out for dinner. However, work constraints forced him to cancel our appointment, so my friend and me were stranded in the middle of Sanlitun, Beijing's tourist trap district. Hungry after a long day of sightseeing, and not wanting to get ripped off in any of the crappy westernized restaurants around the area, we decided to call it a day and settle for a dozen or so spicy meat skewers. As I was to realize later, that wasn't a really good idea.

Still unaware of the events yet to unfold, I decided to go into a Mexican-themed tourist trap watering hole and have some beers. In the bar we bumped into this Swiss guy who was there eating some burritos on his own. He was an extremely wealthy kid who was living the life of a playboy with Daddy's money, the owner of a quite famous private bank from Switzerland. He'd been in Beijing for two months and stayed in a swanky penthouse owned by one of his father's mates. Having no better plans, we accepted the kid's invitation and joined him for a night out in town. After emptying some bottles at his place, we embarked ourselves on a bar tour around Beijing's ritziest clubs.

Hours later, I was having fun in one of the supper clubs when the skewers sought revenge. I tried to resist, but a look at my watch made me realize the futility of my intentions: we still had three or four hours of clubbing to go. I had to pay a visit to the loo no matter what.

I excused myself and went to the club's toilet. It was half the size of my flat and, I dare say, much cleaner. A smily Chinese guy welcomed me in.

I opened the door of one of the futuristic-looking stalls (the club was decorated as a kind of spaceship or something) and was struck with surprise. Despite the club being up to any European nightlife venue I had ever been in my life, they only had traditional Chinese squat toilets. I'd never been on one of those; and needless to say, I had never been on one of those after having five or six gin and tonics. I imagined everything going wrong and having to walk covered in shit around China's trendiest club. But I had to do the dirty deed.

I squatted, tried to forget all the loud techno noise coming from the dance floor, aimed, and let it go. A disgusting flush of foul semi-liquid shit shot out of my dunghole and through the air, landing in the middle of the stall, about six inches or so from the hole where it was meant to go. I pictured my asshole and crack hair to be smeared with shit and started to clean with great precaution -- I was wearing a shirt with French cuffs and a blazer, not exactly the most appropriate attire for such endeavor. I'd gotten real lucky -- and despite the mess that lied around the stall's floor, my anal region had stayed surprisingly unspoiled, so a couple of swipes sufficed.

I carefully closed the spaceship-looking stall and, feeling remorseful for my unwanted and accidental turd terrorism, gave the smily Chinese guy a tip amounting to his weekly wage or so. Then I hastily left the crime scene and rejoined my new billionaire friend and the gorgeous-looking Chinese socialites he'd chatted up while I was on the toilet.

It seemed to me that I couldn't be luckier. I ordered a fresh gin and tonic, forgot my squat-toilet deflowering, and gave in into Beijing's nightlife pleasures.

If I only had known what was yet to come! At five AM or so, after having toured four different clubs around town, my mate and me finally made it to our hostel. Before going to bed, the skewers reawakened, making me feel the urge to take a crap again. Wearing nothing but my underwear, I proceeded to the communal toilets, quickly but not hastily.

All lights were switched off and only moonlight brightened the scene. Tired and numbed by all the drinks I had during our bar crawl, I stumbled through the pagodas that made up the hostel complex. I was less than a yard away from the toilet when I decided to indulge in a little fart. A huge bloop of brown goo fell on the floor through my loose boxer shorts, also smearing them.

I ripped the label off the undies (so nobody could trace them to the hotel's only Spaniards), threw them into the trashcan, washed myself, and, fully naked, silently cleared the scene of my second go at turd terrorism in a single night.

Days later, our vacation ended and we flew back to Europe. At the airport police checkout, the Chinese policewoman investigated my passport and visa longer than usual. When she finally handed my documents back to me and wished me a pleasant flight, I was relieved. For some seconds, I'd imagined what it'd be like to serve a lifetime for turd terrorism, however unintentional, in a Chinese jail and, uh... go back to a squat stall again.

Our company policy was that we could not lock the doors for anything, so basically I had to smoke cigarettes and use the bathroom between customers. Now, this being Powerball night, and everyone trying to purchase their tickets before the draw break, I didn't have time to relieve myself. I had already been holding my pee for well over an hour.

I finally got the store cleared of all the customers and proceeded to head to the bathroom. I had made it to the employee restroom, and was about to relieve the four tons of pressure that had pushing on my bladder. On the way there, I had already begun to unbutton my pants in preparation for the sweet release. I had opened the bathroom door, and could not believe my eyes. I was in utter shock at what awaited me. Someone had gone into the employee restroom, and completely -- understatement of the century -- violated it.

It looked as if the culprit's colon moonlighted as a pressure washer at a drive in car wash. There was diarrhea explosions all over the trash can, the back of the toilet tank, the sink, the hand rails mounted to the wall, the mirror above the sink, and even a loose festering pile on the bathroom floor. Everywhere except where it was supposed to have been deposited.

I'm standing in the doorway with my jaw open, and all I could say was, "OH GOD!!!!!!!!"

My next thought for sweet relief was the customer restroom. I went there and opened the door, only to find that our anal assassin had struck there as well.

At this point, the dinger on the door was alerting me that customers were entering the store. I re-fastened my pants and proceeded to run to the front sales counter like I was in the Special Olympics. I was mad, to say the least. My anger was to the point that while I waited on the customers, I called my best friend, who also worked there, to inform her of the new paint job our bathrooms had been given.

When I got the customers out of the store, and off the phone, I couldn't even to imagine how I was going to begin cleaning the mess up so I could just pee. I had even contemplated on attempting to squat in the ever-nasty mop sink. Needless to say, I grabbed a gallon of bleach off the shelf, the mop and bucket, as well as several pairs (layers) of gloves to begin my attempt of salvaging the desecrated sanctuaries, still having to pee.

It took me about another hour between customers just to get the employee restroom cleaned. Even after it was cleaned, I still shuddered at the thought of using it, thinking about the carnage I had witnessed in there previously. But I did.

After my bladder was empty, I put both restrooms out of order for the rest of the night. That was enough excitement for me.

And people wonder why convenience stores now have to give you a key to use the restrooms.