The Bathroom Story

[paramedicmike]

I saw this on another site I frequent. It's too good not to share.

If you have a weak constitution or are easily offended by natural processes of the body, stop reading now.

Enjoy!

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning

computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething

cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over

forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the

process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal,

following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch

at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with

subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things

would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order

for my wife. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way backto the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go.

I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have

numbered 0 through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience:

0.Occupied.

1.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.

2.Poo on seat.

3.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

4.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of

toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and

sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful ****ter. I wasn't happy about being

next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds

of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone

conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of

Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. ****ter was blathering to Mrs. ****ter about the ****ty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer

cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand

against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded

with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone

ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall.

The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not

unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency

of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my *** cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became

apparent: (1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's

continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the

bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a

gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.

"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of

choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear

that (gag)??"

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear

that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and

blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in

me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later,

in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to

ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now,

all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he

desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made

themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up...

in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..."

followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at

the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding

down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear

words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I

could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal

announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily

into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a

fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him

running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage.

I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew

that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that

unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl.

Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom

with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a

face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo.

And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the

bathroom.

[HERBIE1]

I actually laughed out loud.

A lot.

My wife thought I was crazy when I told her what I was laughing at.

[Chief1C]

That was fricken hilarious, I had to stop reading, go do something and come back, to control my almost violent laughter.

[scubanurse]

Disgusting but friggin hilarious!

[island emt]

Been there done that!

Thats why the ER at one hospital has a special " FOR EMS ONLY" bathroom, It even has a hazmat enter at your own risk sign on the door. :-}

Serves him right for using his phone in the crapper

[Lone Star]

That was fricken hilarious, I had to stop reading, go do something and come back, to control my almost violent laughter.

I think I strained a couple ab muscles.

I DID learn a couple valuable lessons though....do NOT read this forum while drinking coffee! "Keyboard condoms" are essential if you're insistant on violating the first lesson.