Sounds like you suffer from poor shitter discipline. Dirty toilet, loose seat, no TP, umprogrammed clock. Next thing you're going to tell me is that there's no soap and a cracked mirror.

By the way, the can is one of humanity's last sanctuaries. Clocks have no place in the restroom. In the restroom we must rest... even from the cold reality of time.

Please reflect upon these truths.

I think that the patron saint of poop would really depend on the circumstances of the turd in question. For example:

-Stuck on I-10 and there's an accident in the tunnel and you ate Filibertos for lunch - St. Jude, patron saint of lost causes.

-Too much hot sauce for dinner? - St. Florian, patron saint of firefighters.

-Clogged the toilet at the In Laws' during the holidays and want to pretend like you didn't do it? - St. Genisius, patron saint of actors.

-Beer shits? - St. Monica, patron saint of alcoholics.

-Explosive wall splatters? - St. Luke, patron saint of painters.

You get the idea.

I have a theory.

Isabella, the maid from your hotel room was having a torrid love affair with Enrique, the laundry boy. Alas, Isabella walked in on Enrique and Maria, her younger and more beautiful sister, who was the night desk clerk.

In a greatly symbolic act, Isabella presented Enrique with your shit shorts. Enrique, tormented with guilt, laundered them to the best of his ability.

It's beautiful, really.

I think I've heard the "Slippery Root Symphony Orchestra" before. The one guy has the jug, there's grandma with the washboard and that hound dog they picked up over at the county fair, right?

Oh, and the cousin they got playing first chair spoons is top notch.

Just kidding around, Dumpster. Great story.

Richard B, I'm sure whatever institution you escaped from is looking for you. Keep a low profile.

Nice story, AB2K. Since this lack of border control is such a rarity, I wonder what prompted the assault on your undies.

By the way, how long do you think it would take for a standard turd to freeze in 9 degree weather?

Personally, I'd make a run for it. There's something about that idea of booking it for the next stall that makes me laugh and pumps me up all at the same time. Ideally, one would never be put in this situation.

Always check the inventory before you open the store for business.

That is, if you flip it over "cow tippin' style."

No one should have to answer this question.

Poop is funny. It looks funny, smells funny, even the word itself is funny. It's funny forwards, equally funny backwards, heck, turn it up-side-down and it spells "boob;" a first rate funny word in its own right.

"Chicks and ducks and geese better scurry. Dumpster's ass is in a big hurry. To release a stank filthy flurry that will make a plop."

KOC, are you honestly trying to say that you used the wrong word because it is easier to type "gorilla" than "guerrilla?" Whatever, dude. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt.

How about these: "The Tell Tale Fart," "The Poo-loined Letter" and "The ASS-ignation." Ah, I love Edgar Allen Poo.

I wish that we, as a society, would treat our retired shitters with more respect. An old toilets' home perhaps?

This is just another example of how shit is the world's great equalizer. I am mentally picturing Pope Benny pitching a pontifical poo out onto St. Peter Square. Well done.

No, dang it! NO! No more. Pooping is precious. Can't we all just sit around the crap fire and sing Kumbaya?

There is so much stife and hatred in this world. It saddens my heart that one of our last bastions of repite, the poo palace, is no longer sacred.

We become mired down in each others stink, be it physical or political, and we allow ourselves to be defined by that stink.

I say no. No to turd terrorism, no to crap harassment, and no to political bullshit keeping us from being brothers and sisters.

I am more than just a smell.