Feek And Destroy
A few days ago, I took my kidney candy to a small, dirty, depressing, (and hence) seldom-used men's room on the other side of our large office building. It was supposed to be just a run-of-the-mill trip to the pisser -- a chance to clear my head and bladder, stretch my legs, and gain some time and distance from the dream factory that is my work cubicle. Little did I know it would become the site of a watershed moment in the annals of workplace potty karate, as well as a test of my moral character.
A test which I would fail dismally.
I was rinsing the soap off my hands when the restroom door abruptly flew open. In lumbered customer service representative Mr. X, a wondrous mass of pink flesh boasting the chiseled physique of a beanbag chair and a gut that bore silent witness to a diet focused on quantity. Underneath tufts of heavy gray beard was a jaw set in determination.
Our eyes only met for a split second, but so help me I knew the look in those eyes: single-minded of purpose, hyper-alert, escalating terror bordering on shrieking insanity.
No pleasantries were exchanged, no movements wasted as he bypassed the two urinals and made a beeline for -- oh dear -- The Stall.
Home to the only chunk dumpster in the restroom, The Stall is treated with the macabre reverence of a grisly murder scene, going unvisited by all but a few thrill-seekers, the naïve, or the hopelessly desperate. With its cramped quarters, amphitheater-like projection of anal pyrotechnics, and absurd proximity to the phalanx of customer service representatives stationed just outside the restroom door, The Stall is a menacing crapper that recognizes no station in life, affords no mistakes, harbors no secrets. Quite simply, The Stall can fuck up your day in the blink of an unpuckered eye.
The burly beast shimmied past me and into The Stall with a condensed, measured stride, calling to mind a pigeon-toed sasquatch who'd just endured violent anal congress with a fire hydrant. His belt buckle clinked hard against the tiles as his pants were whipped to the floor, followed by a resounding THUD! as his corpulence plummeted to the seat. No seat wipe-down was performed, and rightfully so. This was a man mere moments away from reducing his crotch to a sagging hammock of septic steak sauce. This was a man in the frenzied, I'm-coming-for- your-shoes stage of Restless Log Syndrome.
This was a man in need of some alone time.
But I'm a PoopReporter, goddamnit, and I was clearly in the presence of greatness -- a wizard of the dark magics, a conjurer of unholy tailpipe demons, a shithouse sorcerer about to conduct a brown mass. It was my obligation to document the release of the swollen wonders gestating within Mr. X's digestive catacombs, to breathe deep the noxious, forbidden vapors that organic chemists and long haul-truckers only whisper about in the shadows.
Then again, I'm also a despicable bastard, and opportunities like this don't present themselves very often. Consumed by a sudden sense of purpose, I scorned the paper towel dispenser and made for the door. If I timed this just right…
"C'mon, big boy, " I silently pleaded.
My timing was impeccable. Just as I opened the door, his unclenched gash released its torment. An air-splitting concussive boom that made Hiroshima look like a fuckin' spring onion festival caromed off the bowl and into the collective consciousness of a dozen or so of his co-workers. This worrisome blast was immediately followed by a most shocking burst of spastic colorectal gibberish that crackled and spattered in fragmented pulses, like Morse Code being sent via hot bacon grease.
This was no dump. This was a declaration.
(Of what? I have no fucking idea.)
But it was only the opening statement in what proved to be a glorious sermon.
Driven by insatiable demons, I pulled the door open to its maximum capacity. The leviathan responded in kind by bearing down with the bold, uncompromising authority only three-hundred-and-forty-plus pounds of concentrated fury can muster. His semi-solid waste retention levees were atomized instantly. A savage torrent of non-cohesive metabolic netherslop gushed from his wretched hellmouth and into the waters below. The powerful current plundered all in its path, apparently wrenching untapped seams of entrenched gastrointestinal plaque and impacted trunkgunk from their anchorages. The accompanying soundtrack suggested something incredibly vast -- the fabric of space/time, maybe, or a lengthy span of his excretory musculature -- being ripped to shreds.
Heads turned. Eyes bulged. Jaws dropped. All chatter with our insufferable customers ceased.
But just when I thought this egregious act of voluntary canslaughter had reached its comedic zenith came the capper: "UUNNRRRGGGHHH!" -- A primitive, animalistic moan/roar that predated human language, yet managed to convey a complex range of feelings and emotions: despair and anguish, relief and fear, exhilaration and exhaustion. Nobility, thy name is Mr. X!!
The door closed behind me. Frozen with mouths agape, every customer service rep trained their incredulous gaze on me. Clearly nothing in their vocational training had prepared them for this affront, although a gallant few had the presence of mind to shield the mouthpiece on their headset so as not to transmit the madness over federally-regulated communication lines.
Struggling mightily to contain my jubilation, I played the hapless victim of circumstance, registering my disgust and indignation at being caught up in this horrible "accident" by making a sour face and hightailing it out of there.
Reaction among Mr. X's colleagues then broke along gender lines. The female reps, their bourgeois notions of "privacy" and "decency" having been sonically curb-stomped, appeared to be gripped by a wave of black-biled nausea. Of particular note was the poor elderly woman sitting closest to the restroom door. As the realization that the line between man and beast was being obliterated less than ten yards from where she worked sank in, her revulsion was such that her face creased up in a wrinkly mass rivaling a Shar-Pei's nutsack after a lengthy bath.
The men, of course, simply began laughing their fool heads off.
As did I, once I'd cleared the vicinity and returned to my cubicle. I had pulled it off: a flawless execution of the ol' Urinate/Anticipate/Humiliate/Nauseate/Evacuate.
There was only one thing left to do.