Bathroom Humor

Hopefully you will find it funny……


All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, slow sales, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent customers and a sore back all helped to make me a seething cauldron of steaming rage.
But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a ‘George Bush’. I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six or seven huge cups of coffee and adding a bean-laden lunch from the nearby Taco Bell. The day finally finished, and as I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle but structural rumbles that a George Bush was indeed coming and very big things were in my near future. I had no idea that such small amounts of escaping air could verify this imminent event with such authority. Alas, I had to stop at the Fred Meyer store to pick up an item and as I was walking through the store on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic. It was as if the sign was intended for my colon. By now my colon was approximately 8 inches in diameter and certainly no less than seven feet long. It responded to the sign with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart. It had just verified that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the store bathroom by taking hundreds of cautious 12 inch steps. The restroom was about ¼ mile down the aisle. Upon entering, I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your understanding:

1.Occupied and judging by the sounds, this guy was lifting a car up.

2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one. I could see the stall paint was reacting to the guy lifting the car.

3.Poo on seat. That is an automatic NO. There is no amount of cleaning, sanding, painting or covering that will ever make this seat useable again. It must be replaced.

4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat. See number 2 above.

5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet. I could live with no paper or door but I think I saw corn in that object.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Georger and I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot and my colon was clearly in charge. Well, I placed my feet in the elevated stirrups, grabbed both panic bars and inserted the bite block!!

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of The Beatles 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, my new neighbor’s 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. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty 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 to Georging soon, my day would be getting even crappier.


Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I squeezed both grab bars and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of such colossal magnitude, I was forced to grab the toilet paper core and poke my colon back in. I now know it is time to get this party started. The noise sounded like someone dropping a 5 gallon bucket of uncured Jell-O into swimming pool. The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley with a damaged crankshaft. I managed to hit resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently. It was beautiful.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping, 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. The exhaust fans slowed and I think the fire/safety alarm may have activated.

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 the suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"

Next door I could hear fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Tiny pieces of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up... in my mouth.... tell the kids... love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

-

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 a string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

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. I wanted to get him a sympathy card or leave him a tip. 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 to 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 George Bush room. And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.