I sped into a stall. Being half drunk, I muttered, "This will make a great poop report."
To my surprise, the girl heard me and cried, "Did you say PoopReport? I read it every day online! I love it!"
I laughed (and farted along with the laugh) and called out, "Well, I'm Crapola from PoopReport!"
She replied, "Oh my God, really? I love your poop reports! I can't believe it! You're, like, a celebrity!"
I emerged from the stall, washed and dried my hands, and got a big hug from her. Then, as a dutiful Poop Reporter, I asked if the stench had come from a dump from her rump. Yes, indeed.
I encouraged her to be less Shameful. We hugged again. Then she asked for my autograph!
Then I went back to the bar to become three-quarters drunk.
Editor's note: After receiving this from Crapola, I responded:
That's amazing and unbelievable. It's like a hallucination. I've actually met one person who submitted to PoopReport before meeting me, but I've never had an experience like that. I think that's incredible!
You should have told the person to email me, to describe the story from her point of view.
Crapola wrote back:
Yes, it was bizarre, but hilarious. I was hanging out at ******* with my friend Helen, who's an attorney. When I burst out of the bathroom, away from the Pretty Pooper and back to the barstool next to Helen, I could hardly tell the story, since I was overcome with the giggles about my "celebrity" status and still reeling from Pretty's noxious poop stench that robbed my inebriated brain cells of oxygen. Helen thinks PoopReporting is coocoo. But I don't care!
Actually, I *did* mention you, Dave. I told the Pretty Pooper that I had met you last year and had dinner with you at Nick's Pizzeria. And that Hairy Pooter [1] had joined us. And that you and Hairy stopped in at my apartment and gave my pet Easter Joy Bunny a PoopReport bumper sticker, which she proudly displayed, clenched between her Bugs Bunny front teeth while she pooped in her litter box. And that I had photos to prove it [2]!
The Pretty Pooper asked if I'd ever met The Big Wiper or The Shit Volcano. Sorry, never had the pleasure. I've gotta say, she really knew her PoopReporters. But she said she was too Shameful to ever report her poop.
Editor's note: Upon hearing this, I realized this is the perfect opportunity to draw a Shameful pooper out of the shadows into our welcoming arms. Ms. Pretty Pooper -- please talk to us! We're here for you! Add a comment below (confirming the name of the bar on the Upper East Side where you met Crapola, so we know it's you). And if you can, scan in Crapola's autograph and email it to me so I can post it here!
Pretty Pooper, we're here for you. You can be Shameful in real life, but there's no reason to be silent here on the PoopReport. You're among friends. Brown comrades. We all stink up bathrooms, too.
In the meantime: have any other PoopReporters ever had an experience at all like this?