This is the true story of a horrible experience I had one day about eight years ago. I worked on the dock of a certain department store at our local mall. My jobs were to unload delivery trucks, unpack the goods (clothes, perfume, accessories), and deliver them to the sellers out on the floor so they could put them away on the racks or the shelves. Unfortunately, my job also included cleaning the bathrooms every hour. Being that there were no female dock workers, that responsibility included the ladies' bathroom as well.

What cleaning the bathrooms every hour boiled down to was doing a quick look-over, wiping off the counter, and emptying trash if it was too full. I didn't encounter anything too gross in my cleanings. Maybe I had to flush after someone or wipe a pee-stained seat. That was the grossest that it amounted to -- until that dreadful day.

Up until that day I had a somewhat positive outlook on women in general. Sure, there could be some skanky, foul mammajammas out there; but for the most part I regarded women as polite and respectful when it came to things such as farting and pooping. Very rarely do we hear women rip good juicy farts in public or around other people. When women go to the bathroom -- well, that's another story. I too, have read the report about what women supposedly do in the bathroom [1], and I think the jury is still out on that one. But never had I expected that a woman could do THIS.

I stepped into the bathroom and my view of women as frail and dainty (and, for the most part, clean) was shattered. Maybe -- MAYBE -- I could expect this from a guy, but never a girl. It just could not be. I was in shock. Denial. For there, rising above the grayish-blue tiled floor like a lone mountain on a vast prairie, was a monstrous, fresh, steaming log. Egad! A woman had dropped her load in the middle of the bathroom floor!

I immediately stepped out of the bathroom to gather myself. After getting over my initial shock of what some woman -- a WOMAN -- had done in the bathroom, another thought, even more dreadful, rose up and stabbed me: I was going to have to clean this up.

My mind began to run through my options. If I ignored it, the next bathroom guest would come in, see it, and complain to the manager. The manager would get my boss, my boss would get me, and I'd have to clean it. I couldn't leave early. There was no way around it.

So I began to make a battle plan. We didn't have any of those suits that nuclear scientists wear to protect themselves from radiation (a must-have in this case). But we did have gloves, a broom, a dust pan, and a whole lot of the brown rolls of paper used to dry your hands.

I was Rambo. I was preparing to step foot back onto enemy grounds to attack the foreign enemy. Was it an accident? Was it on purpose? Was this a twisted calling card from some psychotic witch who had just cursed our store with her fecal festivities? Who knew where this beastly thing had come from -- black, white, petite, fat, young or old? Whatever the case, I did not care. I was going to dispose of this wretched filth. Gloves on, weapons in hand, I opened the door and crossed the line into enemy territory. I locked the door behind me. There would be no infiltrators or flankers to disturb my mission.

I turned to face my enemy and began preparing my weapons. I mummified the dustpan and the bottom of the broom in a thick coat of brown tissue. Approaching the feminine turd carefully (I didn't want any surprise attacks -- what if it was actually a bomb?), I gathered my courage. When I was sure that it wasn't going to explode on me, I placed the dustpan at the base of the steaming, brown goblin, the broom on the opposite side, and preceded to sweep/slide the stinking mass onto the pan. Holding my breath, I finally got the beast onto the pan and carefully but swiftly walked it to the nearest stall. In you go where you belong and where you should have been all along... kersplash! Then I flushed the female butt monster into oblivion. See ya later, alligator.

Lots of sanitizing immediately followed. A disinfectant spray bottle was unleashed on the stained floor. A gargantuan wad of brown paper was placed on top of that to do the scrubbing. Hands got washed and rewashed and scrubbed thoroughly. I was done. I had won. I had gone to do battle and I had come back alive. Unfortunately, I had also come back with a whole new perspective on what the pleasant and courteous opposite sex was actually capable of. And what one of them had just, in a way, forced me to do.

In that, I was actually defeated. I left the crime scene and battlefield behind me and went back to work with a curious eye on all the women in the store.

-- Sir Dropalog