I LOVE public toilets ! Specially, the one in the malls. With the shiny floor tiles and the squishy soap container, to the hand drying machine that makes a cheery noise.
BUT...i hate people who find the need to use their stupid little electronic piece of device which rings like a freakin fire truck.
Yes. Mobile Phones.
I mean WHY wouldnt you put it on the silent mode or something when ur doing your business? IT COULD BE LETHAL FOR ALL YOU KNOW !! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
And it had to happen on the worst day my stomach chose to torment me. I headed to one of those oh-so-flashy restrooms across Wimpy's.
Except the second door, the rest were occupied, so i had no choice.
I trudged back, entered, dropped my trousers and sat down. I wasn’t happy about being next to the occupied stall. Just so you know, I am normally a shameful shitter. I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden this alarming noise 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. The inane conversation went on and on. Mrs. shitter was blathering to Mr. shitter about the shitty day she had.
I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for her 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 ass 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 ass 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
(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 her conversation in mid-sentence. “Oh my God,” I heard her 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 her fumbling with the paper dispenser as she desperately tried to finish her task. Little shittles of conversation made themselves hear over my shit 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 shit-mate had dropped her phone into the toilet. There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision her standing there, wondering what to do. A final 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 her running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. 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 she flushed her phone, or had she 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 shit-mate. I think it’ll be a long time before she can bring herself to shit in public — and I doubt she’ll ever again answer her cell phone in the toilet.
And that, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.
Phew.
