My work had been steadily increasing as the days went on. Nine-hour days were now eleven-hour days. They were making us travel farther and farther to our jobs as well. Life was anything but fine. Well, we were getting paid and the money was damn good; so that part, I guess, was okay. But the hours were taking their toll on everybody. Nevertheless, each morning at 6:55 we would all wearily saunter into work to begin the next day of torture.

We were wiring up huge buildings -- at least thirty units each day. As the senior guy on the crew, I was the most stressed. If something went wrong, it was invariably my fault, even if I had no part in it. My job was to oversee all the work that was going on as well as to participate in it. I would have to wire up about five units myself as well as walk all the rest that were done by my crew. Thank God for Doc Marten work boots.

As most of you may know, I am a severely Shameful Shitter, and I will NOT, under any circumstances, shit anywhere but my own house. That being the case, my days were longer then most of my coworkers. Every few hours, as I would make my rounds through the building, one of my guys would be down at the port-a-john getting rid of his breakfast the old fashioned way. God bless anyone who can shit in a port-a-john, because I sure as hell can't. I can barely bring myself to pee in those things. The smell alone makes me want to vomit.

This particular morning, the owner of our company decided he wanted to make an appearance on the job site and critique my managerial skills. I guess I just wasn't getting the job done as fast as he would have liked. He did, however, bring us all breakfast: a bevy of fried and baked good were laid out for us once we arrived on the job site. I grabbed a pork roll and cheese sandwich on a bagel and went back up to the unit I had been working on the previous day. (If you don't know what pork roll and cheese is, you aren't from New Jersey. It's the best stuff ever invented. Come to New Jersey and sample it.)

The owner came up with me and we walked a few units. I munched on my bagel as he harangued me for how slow and sloppy my guys had been working. In my defense, I'm one guy in a HUGE building. It's tough to keep tabs on everybody. The bagel went down nice and easy; and for that moment, everything was okay. The boss gave me a hearty "Get your shit together," and off he went. I went back to my unit and started to work once again.

At about noon, I began to feel rather queasy. I wasn't sure if it was the bagel or the fifth of gin I had consumed the night before; either way, all did not bode well for my innards. I was standing up on a ladder when the initial wave of cramps hit me. It felt like someone had stabbed me in the stomach with a rusty rake. I leaned over and winced in my pain.

My helper saw I was in discomfort and made a remark. "You a'ight, boss? You eatin' the owner's ass again?"

I grabbed a handful of staples and hurled them at him. He took cover and returned fire with a volley of sheetrock screws. We laughed for a bit and continued working. The cramps subsided and I thought nothing of it.

Lunch came around and I was doing okay. I hadn't had any more cramps, so I figured it was just some gas. I was farting pretty bad, hotboxing my helper all day. Little bastard, that will teach you to run your mouth! I decided to skip lunch and sleep my hour away. I had been so rundown as of late I figured an hour of sleep might help me a bit.

I climbed into the back of stinky work van, laid down some busted-up boxes of wire, and drifted off into slumber. I was having a dream about a hot little Puerto Rican girl when the cramps returned and returned with a vengeance. I immediately sat up and almost vomited from the pain. For a second I forgot where I was and looked around in confusion. Once I regained my wits, I realized I needed a crapper and I needed one fast.

The back door swung open and out I leapt. I screened my surroundings for anything worthy of my sweaty ass cheeks. There was a crackhouse down the block, a shitty old deli across the street, a police station down the other block, and the row of port-a-johns directly in front of me. My mind began to race. Could I make it to the police station? Would they let me use the bathroom? What about that deli -- do they even have a bathroom for customers? I knew there was a toilet in the crackhouse, but who in their right mind would shit in a crackhouse?! There was no other choice. I would have to use the port-a-john.

I slowly duckwalked over the port-a-john and stood there for a second. There was a row of about five of them. Which one do I chose?

Just as I began to think, one of my guys exited from one of the shitters.

"Might want to avoid that one, boss. Nothing good in there."

Now my choices had decreased by 20%. Damn him! Just as I called him a fucken jerk off, another one of my guys exited yet another port-a-john.

"Bad news in there, Mike. I think I shit out my spleen."

Fuckers, all of them! And then there were three. I scanned the remaining three toilets and carefully analyzed my situation. I was in dire straights here, and time was of the essence. I chose the once in the middle. I quickly threw the door open and entered the lion's den. As soon as I entered, the overpowering stink of weeks of shit and urine kicked me right in the dick. I turned to exit, but the cramps hit my again. Just as I doubled over in pain, the door swung open. It was a Mexican laborer. "Occupado!" I screamed at him as he slammed the door on me. I flipped the little latch thing and sat down on the toilet seat. It was time to have a heart to heart with my lower half.

"Look. Here's the deal. I know you don't want to do this, and neither do I. But we don't have a choice. It's either here or in a box in the van!"

My colon voiced its displeasure with a few raucous farts. I got up, raised the lid, and peered down into the grogan graveyard in front of me. The shit was piled nearly to the top of the bowl. I stared in horror at the mound of ass pudding that was in front of me. I didn't know if I should vomit or just pass out. I regained my composure and started to unbutton my jeans. It was doot or die time!

I laid down a six-inch layer of toilet paper on the rim to give myself some elevation away from the pile of dookey. I was turtleheading big time, but I was still undecided. At this point, I would have been perfectly okay with shitting in my pants rather then shitting in this port-a-john.

And there I stood: me and the pile of shit in front of me, my pants half unbuttoned, and the six-inch layer of TP before me. Every so often someone would try to get in the port-a-john and realize the door was locked. I contemplated shitting in the little urinal thing on the side -- at least there wasn't a pile of crap in there.

Finally my colon had had enough of this debate and decided that the time of evacuation was now or never. The train began to approach the stop and there was nothing I was going to do about it. I closed my eyes and lowered myself upon this throne of debauchery and prayed for almighty God to take my life that very moment. Just as my ass cheeks touched the toilet paper barrier, I flinched. Never before had I shat in such a place. With my eyes closed, I pushed forth. Tears began to flow; it was as if I was losing my virginity to that slutty biker up the street. It wasn't meant to happen like this -- not here!

The grogan came and went in a blur, and I did feel better. I opened my eyes and looked down at the new king sitting atop the mountain. It didn't look like all the rest. It stood out. It was as if this grogan, sitting atop the great grogan hill, was the leader of all the other grogans. He was reigning over his minions.

I wiped my ass about until I felt somewhat clean -- all in all about five thousand times. I was careful to throw my debauched TP to the side of the mound and all around my new leader. I didn't want to spoil the moment. I quietly and silently exited the port-a-john and vowed never to speak of this again -- well, at least not to anyone but fellow PoopReporters.

When I got back up to the unit I had been working at, all my guys were there standing around. I walked in and they all looked at me with a sly smile.

"Finally broke down and done it, huh, boss?"

"You're one of us now!"

"That port-a-john was fucken heinous -- you should get an AIDS test after going in there."

They all laughed and so did I. It was as if this one moment had breached the gap between worker and boss. No more was I the asshole manager who had to get shit done on or ahead of schedule. Now I was the asshole manager who took forty minutes to shit in a port-a-john.