But enough background. I've already established that I considered my digestive system to be a model of efficiency and security, and that I believed I can eat just about anything without causing a destructive dump. This week has proved all of my preconceptions incorrect, much to my dismay, as I have been fraught with wet farts and supersized poops all week. The festive season is truly with us, and I believe the rich food and never-ending beer supply is starting to take its toll on my body. Earlier in the week I had the misfortune of a slightly-wetter-than-usual case of the farts, during which a quick underpants change was in order; although I was already at home, which was my only saving grace.
A similar bout affected me shortly after lunch today. Usually I am polite and courteous and save it for the bathroom, but this one just had to bust out. In emergency circumstances (not quite code brown, but close), I permit myself to sneak one out on condition that it can be well concealed. I sit next to a window and not in close proximity to my co-workers (lucky for them), so a brief backdoor bugle is not disastrous if kept out of earshot. Luck was not on my side this time, as not only did I underestimate the magnitude of the blast but also the consistency -- and thus I suffered a double embarrassment of an audible fart and slightly moistened underpants.
Such was the shock of the situation that I had to gather my thoughts for several minutes before taking action. "Perhaps it's just sweat," I reassured myself. "This stuff only happens on PoopReport -- not to me!" I also made some not very convincing squeaky noises with my chair in an effort to mislead my co-workers into thinking the fart was just a figment of their imagination.
Conceding that I could not do much more, I made the trip to the bathroom. In itself this is valuable reconnaissance, as just by the act of walking you can often determine the damage already done.
The prognosis was not good.
On locking the door behind me, I immediately inspected the damage: visibly soaked undergarments. Although, thankfully, most of the effect was watery, with only traces in evidence of whatever devil-possessed fecal matter was at the root of the cause. Being a person of usually fairly clean nature, the first instinct was that this garment must be disposed. But first I set about quelling the rectal revolution that was already in motion, which turned out to be a non-event and actually quite a disappointment. There is nothing quite as satisfying as a violently destructive toilet session.
That formality over and the requisite two flushes performed, the soiled garments were next. I know that every plumber will tell you not to flush anything but what a toilet is designed for, but the desperation of the situation called for desperate measures. I couldn't very well walk out, soiled underpants in hand, to the horrified looks of my co-workers, so the underwear had to be dealt with here. I dropped them in the bowl and began a process of futile flushing.
The problem was that the fabric, when wet, grabbed the ceramic of the bowl like rubber -- unlike waste matter, which usually glides by like a swan floating on a lake. Panicking, I attempted to push them into the S-bend with the toilet brush, which only made things worse -- blocking the passage altogether, and causing the water level to rise dramatically.
This clearly was not going to work, and yet there seemed to be no alternative. What I needed was a disposal method, but there was no bin and no window (even though, in retrospect, the idea of flinging some now-sodden underpants from a window several stories up into the alley seems ridiculous; but at the time any option was welcome).
Salvation came at last in the form of a tissue box. I could empty out the remaining tissues, hide the evidence in the tissue box, and cover the opening with some tissues before innocently tossing the whole item into the garbage. The only barrier in place was that the item in question was halfway up the S-bend.
Steeling myself for the inevitable, I plunged my arm under the murky waters until I was in elbow-deep. My frantic fingers found the hem and tugged away until the underpants came loose. I hung them to drip dry into the bowl over the side of the toilet seat while I obsessive-compulsively scrubbed away at my tainted arm in the washbasin. In a way I was surprised at the alacrity I displayed in fishing out the briefs from the murky depths -- it was a task I had believed was reserved for plumbers, drunks, and junkies who have accidentally flushed their stash, and one I never thought I would permit myself to do.
The tissue box plan worked a treat, and several flushes later (in order to preserve the presentation of the facilities), the secret package was ready to be delivered. A last-minute inspection showed to my displeasure some small seep-through onto my new suit pants, but it would dry and they could be washed when I got home. I had already accepted the inevitable prospect of going commando for the rest of the day; which, luckily, only entailed a couple more hours.
Nonchalantly exiting the bathroom, I made my way to the garbage and dumped my awful secret. The mission was a success! What's more, I had something to write about on PoopReport -- a thought that had occurred to me about halfway through the proceedings.
I made my way back to my desk with no one was the wiser. My bloated bowels continued to give me hell for the rest of the day, but no further emergencies occurred. If I've learnt anything, it's to be more wary of fecal fume-emitting after consuming too richly during the festive season.