This is a story about poo. You've been warned.
My beloved readers, I have mentioned before that I enjoy the marginally clean comforts of a semi-private water closet at my place of employment. This fact brings me immeasurable and disproportionate joy in my otherwise pedestrian existence. Having a golden key to a private crapper is my version of getting invited to the party of the year at Clive Owen's house, except there's no party, no Clive, and the only decorations are some dusty fake daisies in a basket that some hopeful soul brought in years ago to give the place a "feminine" touch.
Some of you that work in adult, sanitary, modern office complexes and have things like "expense accounts" and "windows" may not understand why I would take the time to boast about such a monumentally lame thing, but if you worked where I do- a public institution of higher learning- you would get it. The "public" restroom nearest my "VIP" restroom has such a high volume of use by such a wide variety of ladyfolk that I regularly hear reports of "it was the only stall that didn't have puke in it" or "it looked like someone just threw a bag of shit at the wall". I haven't set foot in there in a long, long time, but when I imagine it in my mind, it looks like what would happen if you opened a cat food cannery inside the monkey cage at the zoo.
The private can is a small joy in my life, just shut up and let me have it, OK?
I clicked the key in the lock the other day and entered into the private, quiet, and surprisingly roomy institutional terlet that I hold so dear.
Because I share this restroom with fellow culinary personnel and other various, random staffers who have cleverly discovered that the key for this room is the same key that opens many, many doors in our building (including, but not limited to: classrooms, kitchenettes, storage closets and the tomb of the unknown janitor), I started to do what I always do before perching my bum on the elongated bowl, which is to check the seat for any abnormalities such as stray hairs or miniscule crustaceans. "Peek before you pee" is my motto. So is "No no Cheetos in the nose", but that's neither here nor there.
I approached the porcelain bus with a full bladder and a scrutinizing eye.
That's when I saw it.
The giant, so dark that I actually made note of how dark it was mass of evil sat in the bowl, perched on the little ledge looking at me, defiantly. There was no smell, no "spray", and no other visible signs that this dark matter had not just dropped from the sky into my blessed and holy space from some alien being trying to mess with my head and mess with my crapper. It sat there proudly, staring at me in that way hobos do right before they start humping my leg and grabbing for my purse. I know this look, and it scares me.
I had to make a decision as I was now in the unfortunate position of having entered the room- thereby creating the possibility that there may have been a witness to my having been present in the same vicinity as the offending object, and therefore bringing about the possibility that I may have produced the nugget of evil myself. Crap.
I decided to just flush the beast away to a better, happier place where it could roam free and be reunited with it's poopy bretheren.
So, I flushed.
I flushed again.
Fine. One more time- third time's the charm, right?
It wouldn't budge. I swear I heard it giggling, mocking my efforts.
I flushed, and flushed and flushed again. Round abouts the 14th try, I saw a crack in its facade.
It moved. Just a little.
One push of the button, one final woosh of water, and the tremendously terrifying turd broke free and slid away- saving me from possible humiliation and the probably permanent title of "Princess Poo".
I breathed a sigh of relief. Big mistake.
It hit me like a pile of roadkill in 100-degree heat. Like raw, rotten hamburger covered in fermented gym socks. Like the collective armpit stink on the last day of Woodstock.
By disturbing the poo's final resting place, I had unleashed the hounds of hell. The smell was unlike any poo before or ever shall be. It filled the 5' x 8' space so quickly and potently that I had little time to think before the stench would permeate my clothing and skin and I would have to spend the remainder of the day dealing with everyone around me sniffing suspiciously and wondering if I had a glandular problem.
Reputation be damned, I got the hell out of there as fast as I could. There was no way I would be able to spend even one more second in that foul, fetid stinkbox no matter how urgent my need to pee was. I ran out into the hall, the heavy door shutting firmly behind me.
I had escaped the poo of Lucifer and the mighty fog that accompanied it. I quickly looked around for any witnesses that would need "disposing" of later on in some sort of mafia-esque fashion involving piano wire and a cattle prod - all clear.
Knowing I couldn't face yet another scene of carnage so soon, and knowing that only months of aromatherapy and psychotherapy would erase the memories of this horrifying day, I took a sharp left and walked the past the public restroom, my bladder whimpering a little.
Nearly a block and a half later (it's a big building) I settled my bare bum onto the clean seat of the only other semi-private loo and tinkled away, relieved and happy with the memory of "The Day of the Poo" already starting to fade.