Face it, we’ve all had that dreadful day where the Taco Salad was a bad call. Maybe the custard was a bit old, maybe the mayo was really yogurt and just maybe washing down five bean burritos with beet juice might have been just a bit too much. You clench, you do anal kegles but no matter, you’re fucked. You have to poop.
You try and shimmy your way past the receptionist without releasing a preemptive test fart and your face looks like you just gave Drew Carrey a blowjob while he wore a grapefruit flavored condom. You tip toe so lightly you could swear some damn violinist was doing pizzicato with each step you took. You open the door, is the coast clear? YESSSSSS……
You open the stall, waddle through penguin-like and are faced with a creature you could swear was the love child of a monster from a John Carpenter film and an Alabama septic tank. There’s no way your ass is even going to hover over that pulsating crap heap. You check the other stall, flies aside it’s half way shittable so you unzip and pray to god your thighs are strong enough to avoid to potentially VD friendly surface of the toilet seat. You’re in the zone, your breathing eases, you fin your zen place when suddenly… someone comes into the bathroom and you can’t face letting any other living being know exactly what your poop shoot is capable of voicing. Double the clench and now your ass begins to hurt. You recite prayers you hadn’t said since you were in grade school and you think about anything instead of the bliss it would truly be to make someone gag with your audio-odorous stunt show but you opt for good taste and hold your breath as tears well your eyes and you realize that you are way too nice. A flush, ten seconds at the wash bin and a door click later you say to hell with it and release what would definitely a finishing maneuver in any Mortal Kombat title that decided to include shit in it. The torrent of oatmeal textured goodness splashes and for a full three seconds, you don’t care about the splash that just dappled your rim. You breathe the putrid air and act as if it were delicious, being thankful that you were able to make it to the john.
Clank, clank… clank, clank, clank, CLANKKKKKKKK. It doesn’t flush! No, no, nooooooo. You stand up and cruelly swipe the sandpaper single-ply paper across your exhausted sphincter, you toss the paper over the mashed innards you just disposed of as if covering the dead body of someone who was real close to you. You pull once again on the handle only to replied with a dry, lame, limp clank. You look at the floor, and slightly moistened by water and urine lays a paper that after a moment or two of deciphering the washed letters you can make out three short words. Out… of... order. You feel bad for what has transpired and can barely look at yourself in the mirror as you finish rinsing your hands. How could you do that? You should have checked for that paper. You should have made sure. But you didn’t. you suck… and so does the other bastard who messed up the other stall.
The moral of the story? Shit happens every day. Some people stress over it, some don’t care. Try and just let things flow and if any problem arises, act as if it has nothing to do with you. And most important of all, just remember two things: 1.) at least shit got done and 2.) someone will always have to deal with someone else’s shit, including yours.