This particular shitty saga took place about a year ago, on the day of my friend's stag party. We had decided to go for a meal and then have some nice, relaxing drinks at a quiet bar after. The meal was great: a hearty Italian if ever there was one. And although a passing car managed to soak me by driving through a puddle created by a blocked drain during the brief walk up to the bar, we arrived sodden but nevertheless full and happy at the bar.
Of course, it wasn't long until my carbonara manifested itself as a lump in my colon threatening to rear its ugly head at any time. So I walked into the toilets and tried the stalls. All were locked, but the bathroom was deafeningly silent -- you could hear a pin drop, let alone a log. The design of the stalls was such that you couldn't possibly tell if anyone was in there without bringing your head perilously close to the urine-soaked floor.
"How odd," I thought. But I guessed I could keep the wolf from the door for another ten minutes. Before I went back to sit down, though, I dried my sodden shirt. Another gentlemen, smartly dressed and over thirty, entered the bathroom as I was drying. As I left the bathroom, he was still waiting for a stall.
So I guess I didn't need to go as badly as I first thought; thirty minutes passed before it was time to release the boon of my bowels as an offering to the porcelain goddess. I walked in briskly, opening the door quite vigorously and glancing towards the stall doors, which were still closed. Out of my peripheral vision I saw a figure squatting over a urinal -- emitting what can only be described as the most sensationally stenchworthy cess into the urinal.
Our eyes met for a brief and horrifying moment. I walked over to the furthest urinal from him in an attempt to avoid interaction. I desperately attempted to refrain from either laughing or crying in disgust.
The man proceeded to quickly pull up his trousers and walk to the door -- dripping horrid pudding all over the floor.
I took a few moments to attempt to gather my thoughts. Why had a thirty-year-old man just shat in a urinal when there was another pub with twenty toilets just twenty meters across the road?
I went to tell my friends of my close encounter of the turd kind. And then I saw the same gentleman (though that title is somewhat grandiose for someone who defecates into a piss pod) sitting at the bar, talking to his friends, without a care in the world. Was he a Shameless Shitter who was one with his putrefied panties and skidded gusset? Especially given the odor -- and his total lack of wiping would have meant a serious odor.
I myself remembered my own internal predicament. I was determined to exercise a little more decorum than our friend here, so I quickly went across the road and shitted in serenity. On my return, the bouncers were in stitches of raucous laughter. "You could tell someone disturbed him halfway through -- he shat all over the floor!"
I smirked and walked back in. Needless to say, the bar never forgot to unlock the toilet stall doors ever again.