S***s and Giggles

This piece doesn't really fit the theme of other chapters (wondering at this point if many pieces fit), but it actually happened to me, and when I wrote it, I had people telling me to post it.

They say timing is everything and though it is an overused quote, timing is an essential component to this story. This is not a story for the faint of heart, so turn back now, if you're not a fan of toilet humor. Before we can get the timing component of this story, some backdrop and essential information is needed. The incident that led to this story took place in the public bathroom of a local grocery store. I tend to avoid public bathrooms as much as I can, as I'm not a fan of them. Public bathrooms have degrees of disgust, and it really depends on the type of public bathroom.

The all around yuckiest ones are public pool bathrooms, because I usually go up to one of them (which is a good ¼ mile from my chair by the pool) forgetting to put on my water sandals. So there I am with the choice of backtracking, or forging ahead into a floor that no man would care to walk upon barefoot. Thus the gross aspect is complicated because of having to deal with the floor of a public restroom, which usually isn't the issue to deal with.

Rest stops, malls, and truck stop public bathrooms give me the creeps because they are talked about the most in the gay community in terms of experiences with random gay sex encounters. Those get "urinate only" label from me, and even then I'm cautious about how long my penis is out in public, due to my latent, intrinsic homophobic response mechanisms.

Movie theatre public restrooms are usually the most disgusting in terms of smell and human waste and other assorted bodily fluids and solids that didn't make its intended target. Those bathrooms are usually never cleaned properly because the person responsible for cleaning is usually on the bad employee list at the theatre. To be on the bad employee list at a movie theatre puts you in one of three categories, social misfit and/or outcast, sociopath, or borderline mental functioning (either classically retarded, or so pumped on anti-psychotic medication that they can't function with food or money parts of the movie theatre and are relegated to ticket tearing and bathroom cleaning). The outcast and sociopath will not do a good job cleaning the bathroom, and the mentally challenged will likely not do a good job not because they won't, but because they can't. Floors here for some strange reason are an issue as it never fails leaving a movie theatre bathroom having your shoes now sticky with (hopefully) spilled soda.

Hotels are usually decent, as are Disney theme parks. I set Disney parks apart from other parks, because Disney sticks to every detail whereas other parks the restrooms are not the world's highest priority. Grocery store bathrooms are somewhere between my own house and the movie theatre. I actually didn't even realize that grocery stores had public accommodations until I was in dire need of one.

Due to my distaste for public restrooms, I avoid them like the plague. My kids unfortunately are not at that stage and love to go in any spot that is not their house. Seeing as how they are 10 and 6, I've labeled them as having an extended anal period and only pray that this fascination will end soon. When left by myself, I will do my best to make sure that I have taken care of things before venturing out, but of course it doesn't always work out that way, and this story would have never come about were it not for that fact.

To set the stage a little more, and give you more detail than you probably care to know, since getting older, my bladder and bowels have changed. In the past 15 years I've developed what I state to be a "sexually transmitted intolerance to lactose". Before meeting and mating with my wife, I could drink gallons and gallons of milk, no problem; heavy cream in a dinner sauce, bring it on. However, this insidious disease has crept into me and now after drinking anything with lactose in it, I'm off to the bathroom in anywhere from 5 to 50 minutes. This disease has now crept into other foods that are not lactose based, and I'm beginning to think I've developed irritable bowel syndrome, though I'm too lazy to research it on the internet and too afraid to tell my doctor thinking that a mandatory finger (or worse some tool) up my a*s will be necessary for a diagnosis. So I happily blame my wife for all my colon woes, and she in turn tells me to shove it up my a*s. I then say "I wish I could but 5 minutes later it will come back out with a vengeance". My wife, disgusted, then walks away.

I've become so used to this sensation now, that I've actually categorized my urges to take a s**t. I don't do anything inventive or use my imagination to come up with a new classification system; I go the lazy route and borrow. I use the same system as hurricane classifications, with my urges ranging from Category 1 to Category 5.

A Category 1 urge is one I'm sure we've all felt, just your colon reminding you that it's got s**t in there; pressing against your abdominal wall fairly gently. This isn't an "I've got to go" sensation; it's more of an "I'll have to go sometime" sensation. It quickly fades and life goes on.

Category 2 is similar to a Cat 1, the urge is a little more pressing, and it gives you that "I'll have to go sometime today" sensation. With Category 3, the pressing on the abdominal wall builds, the sensation lasts longer than a Cat 1 or 2, and it gives you the message "I'll have to go sometime soon".

Category 4 is where discomfort first sets in, the pressing is relatively painful, and message is clear: "I'll have to go within the hour". This is where I start planning, if I'm not at home, how you're going to pull this off before it turns to a Cat 5. If I'm at home, a Cat 4 means it's time to go to the bathroom. Then there's a Category 5, which lately for me is severely uncomfortable, disabling gastric pain. The message is clearly "I'm not so sure you're not going to s**t your pants right now!" Category 5 is closest I've experienced to a pregnancy contraction in my life. I know, you women out there are laughing and saying "you don't know what pain is a*****e", but I'm a guy, obviously I've never experienced a contraction, and can only imagine that it's like the pain I get with a Cat 5. The pain comes on quick, reaches the intolerable threshold within seconds, walking is NOT an option, and the only option is to deal with the pain and clinch your butt cheeks as hard as possible. It actually disables me, because if I don't put all focus on my a*s, it's going to get ugly real fast. The pain will dissipate after about 1 minute, but it seems much longer than one minute. The only thing on my mind is where the nearest bathroom is and can I get there before another Cat 5 hits me. Category 5's are weird too, because sometimes I won't even go through a 1-4 and will immediately get hit out of the blue with a Cat 5.

I know what some of you are thinking … "TOO MUCH INFORMATION", but necessary I think to get the right feel for the remainder of this story. You also had your chance to turn away when I first told you to do so.

So there I was, minding my own business, doing the weekly grocery shopping. I was a good two thirds done with the shopping when WHAM, I'm hit blindsided with a Cat 5. The pain hits me, my shopping cart stops and I tuck my head down and start my Lamaze breathing techniques. The s**t does its best to break through, as this was a really good Cat 5; I can almost hear it saying "TODAY'S THE DAY F****R, THIS IS THE TIME, WE SHALL PREVAIL ON YOUR A*S!" However, I and my butt cheeks and my Lamaze breathing exercises win the battle.

When this type of thing happens I'm a slave to my body as all normal functioning must stop and full attention must be given to making sure I win the battle against my butt. Where this attack occurs usually leads to an interesting exercise in how to look normal when your body is actively attacking you. This attack took place in the baby isle, the isle in every grocery store that is saved for diapers, wipes, food, etc. Two women pass me in carts while I'm having my "male contraction", obviously aware of my Lamaze breathing and surely thinking the worst. I sense them moving more quickly as they pass and notice me, and quickly leave the aisle. I'm sure they'll return when it's safe. However, I did wonder what they thought and if they ever reported the 'incident' to staff.

"Sir, excuse me sir" the woman who just passed me in that isle would harriedly say to the man beind the information desk. "There's some sort of sicko pretending to have contractions and doing Lamaze breathing in the baby isle! Please deal with this immediately as I feel my safety is at risk."

The police never came, so I suspect I was written off by these two women as some psychopathic creep with a pregnancy delusion.

With the attack over now it's all about finding a restroom and finding it fast. The best I've been able to handle is two waves of Cat 5's before admitting defeat and finding a toilet. The body tires and it wreaks havoc on my emotional state of being, after going through just one Cat 5. It takes a while, and sad to say this grocery store didn't advertise their restrooms with visible signs. I was actually starting to panic, because it's ok to ask an employee "what isle do you keep the bath soap" but it tends to be a bit more embarrassing asking for directions to the toilet. I finally find this hidden treasure right between the fresh seafood and the eggs, probably the not the best product placement, but I'm not here to give interior design suggestions, I'm here to publicly defecate. BUT if I were to give said advice, I would suggest placing any supermarket bathroom between the adult diaper section and the toilet paper section, going for the obvious message but also making perfect logistic sense if you ask me.

I enter the men's bathroom area and the first thing I notice is the "Caution: Wet Floor" sign has been wedged on top of the door in order to keep the door from automatically closing. Not a perfect situation having the door open, but there was an empty toilet full of toilet paper, so I'm happy. Next thing that comes immediately to mind as I go towards the empty stall is that the floor is nearly dry, with just one or two small water marks, which putting the sign wedging the door tells me this room was just cleaned. Sure enough when I reach the sacred throne it has blue water in it, an obvious sign that somebody at least made some effort at cleaning the toilet. The extent of that cleaning is unknown, but the odor of the cleanser is strong, as is the smell of the floor cleaner. I go in and at once flush the toilet. This is not my normal habit but I refuse to sit on top of disinfectant. I do the same thing at home, if the toilet has just been cleaned, I flush before doing anything. Its unnerving sitting on top of ammonia based (or whatever based) disinfectant. I think of what that stuff can do to porcelain, and I fear what the fumes could do to my colon.

"Yes Mr. Lifeson I'm sorry to say that you've got scrubbing bubble disease in your a*s and if left untreated it could become cancerous."

"What's your treatment recommendation" I would say anxiously.

"Well first I'll have to put my finger up your a*s and poke around, and then I'll have to follow that pleasurable experience up with a camera attached to a cold metal probe. Then I will have to stick a knife up your a*s and slice off a small chunk of it to send it to the lab. If it has become cancerous then I'm afraid we'll have to put together a whole team of people to poke around and operate on your a*s."

Yah, no thanks, no scrubbing bubble syndrome for me, I'll pass. So, after flushing away any potential carcinogens, I sit down and do my business. Some time passes and I hear a male voice outside the door telling another female patron that he is not done cleaning the bathroom and she'll have to come back. I then hear him step back into the male bathroom and it goes down something like this:

"OH … OH GODDAMN …. (dramatic pause) … DAMN, DAMN … OH MAN … (another dramatic pause) OH COME ON MAN, I JUST CLEANED THIS PLACE … (pregnant pause) … DAMN, DAMN."

Part of me is just dumbfounded, part is insulted, and part is embarrassed. I know it stinks; but you don't have be melodramatic about it. It stunk when I first did it too, but like everyone else in the world you get used to your own stink and the smell goes away surprisingly fast. Now the smell is still obviously still there, my body has adapted to it amazingly quick, and because it is a "foreign" stink to others, it is an obscene shock to their system. I know all about that, we all have been hit with the same thing, you go to a public restroom to take a pee, and you get assaulted by somebody else taking a s**t. What I mostly do in that situation is mumble to myself how disgusting it is, breathe through my mouth and get up out that bathroom as soon as humanly possible. Sometimes I'll yell at my penis if it takes too long for the pee to start flowing because I'll just be sitting there in a stench filled room for longer than I anticipated. However, under no circumstances will I outwardly yell "F**K MAN, YOUR S**T STINKS … DAMN (dramatic pause) DAMN."

So now all this is going through my mind and I start stewing about it. I'm getting insulted that this guy could be that unprofessional. Obviously he has some sort of unwritten "no s**t rule" about how long after he cleans his bathrooms can somebody foul it, and I broke his "no s**t rule".

I now hear him again, he's talking to another woman who wants to use the bathroom, and starts loudly saying "YOU MIGHT AS WELL, EVEN THOUGH I'M NOT FINISHED, OTHER PEOPLE FEEL FREE TO. BUT WHATEVER YOU DON'T GO IN THAT BATHROOM, BECAUSE SOMEBODY JUST DIED IN THERE!"

Now I'm really pissed, screw him. "So I broke your stupid, precious 'no s**t rule' you big dumbass," is what I'm thinking to myself. Now my biases start coming out. We all have them, some biases are based on sex, some are based on race, mine today appear to be based on education. "Shouldn't have dropped out of 6th grade and maybe you'd have a better job than cleaning the toilets at the 'Super Duper Stop 'N Shop eh fucktard" I say to myself.

Then I start thinking what am I going to do about this, I'm not going to take this sitting down … well not in 10 minutes or so I won't, now I have no choice. My first thought was to report him to the manager, with a request that he gets written up. Oh I'd love to see that write-up:

"Bob complained about the smell of a customer's fecal matter, publicly to other customers. Bob will not discuss matters of one customer's ventral orifice to other customers or other employees at while employed at the Super Duper Stop 'N Shop. Should another complaint of a similar nature be reported, a progressive discipline policy will be enacted which could include termination of employment."

The only thing stopping me from doing this is they could actually write the guy up for that. I shop at this store every week, and that day I was wearing a black zippered hooded light jacket from Disney World, that said "Grumpy" on the front and a picture of Grumpy on the back. I know that after filing that complaint, I would forever be labeled in that store, employees would look and whisper to each other, isn't that "Grumpy, the s****y customer" … "yep that's him man, that's the dude that got Bob fired." Unlike other people, that would actually be a badge of honor for me, and I would not shun my "Grumpy, the s****y customer" moniker, in fact I'd wear it proudly making sure I wore my Grumpy jacket whenever I shopped there.

It takes a lot to make me get some guy written up, and complaining about the smell of my feces is not on the list of important things that cannot go unnoticed by one's supervisor. However, Bob still needed to be dealt with and as I sat and shat there, I thought of just the medicine that Bob needed. I quickly finished up my business, pulled up my pants, washed my hands, and went out searching for Bob. He was still there, and I went up to him and said:

"I'm really sorry. You see I have this condition, and I did the best I could, however, I wasn't quite able to make it to the bathroom before things started happening. I did my best though to clean everything off the floor and the walls, but unfortunately I couldn't get it all up. I think you may need to go back in there and get the rest with the mop. I'm truely sorry about that sir, medical condition, I'm sure you understand."

I then walk away leaving Bob with his mouth agape and FINALLY leaving that prick speechless. As I got my cart and resumed my shopping back up the baby isle, I saw him out the corner of my eye slowly returning to the scene of the "crime". He will soon discover that there was in fact nothing to clean up, but those moments of horror and utter disgust in his mind before he finds out the truth, are precious moments and my payback. Having to go back in and smell my s**t one more time is icing on the cake. To this day, Bob refuses to acknowledge me when I see him in the store from time to time, even though I give him a knowing wave and a smile reminding him of the time we spent together, and the things we shared with each other that day.

Reviews

[Zephyr]

this was probably one of the funniest stories i've ver read...it was absolutely hysterical

best parts (in my opinion):
In the past 15 years I've developed what I state to be a "sexually transmitted intolerance to lactose".



...though I'm too lazy to research it on the internet and too afraid to tell my doctor thinking that a mandatory finger (or worse some tool) up my a*s will be necessary for a diagnosis. So I happily blame my wife for all my colon woes, and she in turn tells me to shove it up my a*s. I then say "I wish I could but 5 minutes later it will come back out with a vengeance".



I've become so used to this sensation now, that I've actually categorized my urges to take a s**t.



"Yes Mr. Lifeson I'm sorry to say that you've got scrubbing bubble disease in your a*s and if left untreated it could become cancerous."

"What's your treatment recommendation" I say anxiously.

"Well first I'll have to put my finger up your a*s and poke around, and then I'll have to follow that pleasurable experience up with a camera attached to a cold metal machine. "If it has become cancerous then I'm afraid we'll have to put together a whole team of people to poke around and operate on your a*s."



"Shouldn't have dropped out of 6th grade and maybe you'd have a better job than cleaning the toilets at the 'Super Duper Stop 'N Shop eh fucktard"



Bob complained about the smell of a customer's fecal matter, publicly to other customers. Bob will not discuss matters of one customer's ventral orifice to other customers or other employees at while employed at the Super Duper Stop 'N Shop. Should another complaint of a similar nature be reported, a progressive discipline policy will be enacted which could include termination of employment."



"I'm really sorry. You see I have this condition, and I did the best I could, however, I wasn't quite able to make it to the bathroom before things started happening. I did my best though to clean everything off the floor and the walls, but unfortunately I couldn't get it all up. I think you may need to go back in there and get the rest with the mop. I'm truely sorry about that sir, medical condition, I'm sure you understand."

I then walk away leaving Bob with his mouth agape and FINALLY leaving that prick speechless. As I got my cart and resumed my shopping back up the baby isle, I saw him out the corner of my eye slowly returning to the scene of the "crime". He will soon discover that there was in fact nothing to clean up, but those moments of horror and utter disgust in his mind before he finds out the truth, are precious moments and my payback. Having to go back in and smell my s**t one more time is icing on the cake. P.S., Bob refuses to acknowledge me when I see him in the store from time to time, even though I give him a knowing wave and a smile reminding him of the time we spent together, and the things we shared with each other that day.



exceedingly well done- this is a fantastic write, made more terrific by the fact that it's actually life. great job =)

[Angelheaded Hipster]

*ROTFLMAO*

Oh god....you had me laughing.....The Categories.....Oh man.....

This is awesome, and a classic piece of "toilet humor"