Forget cell phones and driving
<div class="IPBDescription">Cell phones and toilets are worse</div>I read this on another forum i regular, i about died to the epic lulz
<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->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 Sh1tter. 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. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs. Sh1tter about the sh1tty 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 @ss 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 underthe 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.<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
<!--quoteo--><div class='quotetop'>QUOTE</div><div class='quotemain'><!--quotec-->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 Sh1tter. 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. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs. Sh1tter about the sh1tty 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 @ss 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 underthe 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.<!--QuoteEnd--></div><!--QuoteEEnd-->
Comments
For the first time for the last time, it seems that I partially agree with Depot. Moderatly funny, yes, but on an Internet scale it'd earn a 6 or 7 IMHO. Not "in tears" so much as "laughed a little once." Maybe I just don't find poop as funny as I used to back when I was 4.
I'm guessing TC and I have higher standards and have matured from such nonsense. <img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/tounge.gif" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid=":p" border="0" alt="tounge.gif" />
I don't really enjoy toilet humor.
I've always wanted to go into a public loo make some noises and drop a melon into the bowl..
Wasn't releasing Portal to resounding positive acclaim the good hit of your day? Or was that yesterday, and this new day has reset the bar entirely?
Is there no carry-over between days that allow a variable element to the scale? Such that the day before Portal's release, morning coffee was about a 3 and warm blankets at the end of the day were around a 5. The day of portal everything else in the universe that was <i>not</i> related to portals in some way shape or form was a 1, with portal as a 10.
What about the day after? Does coffee go back to 3 and blankets up to 5 again? Was this poop story today's 10? what would the poop story rate on your Portal day? 2?
Define your "good hit" system for us, THEM. Allow us to explore the mind of one of the men who give us joy in the form of 1s and 0s, and other 0s that let you teleport through them.
This joke requires a sense of imagination and adventure. You have to put yourself in the situation of the story teller to really appreciate it.
Depot has the excuse of being alot older thus it may not appeal as much, Tycho just has no sense of humour and a lack of imagination <img src="style_emoticons/<#EMO_DIR#>/tounge.gif" style="vertical-align:middle" emoid=":p" border="0" alt="tounge.gif" />
The carryover is in the form of a multiplier that fades over time. The multiplier doesn't change the order of good events. It just makes everything awesomer. If the multiplier of the day was 1.5x, the scale goes from 1.5 - 15.
So, some rough math for the week.
Sunday (1x multiplier): Lazy day with my gf.
Monday (1.2x multiplier): Testing games all day.
Tuesday (1.1x multiplier): Testing games most of the day. Orange Box button pressing ceremony at midnight. Free Booze.
Wednesday (3x multiplier): Reading reviews/emails/posts and doing a team creativity exercise at work.
Thursday (2x multiplier): More reading reviews/emails/posts and team creativity exercise, Orange Box release party. More free booze, free bowling, free billiards, free food, people, lots of congratulations.
Friday (4x multiplier): Free paid time off day to those who want it. I went in anyway. More reviews/emails/posts. Penny Arcade posts a comic about Portal and lets me check another life goal off the list. A bunch of us guys play a super secret game (not internal) all day. Come home, almost die while reading toilet story.
Saturday (2x multiplier): Sleep in, explain my system of how I have consistently awesome days. Reminds me that I forgot to update "Today was a good day" thread.
So, even though the Penny Arcade took the base 10 score (40 with the multiplier). The toilet is a solid 9, landing at a whopping 36 for me personally on that day.
You might say to yourself that it's easy to please someone with a 4x multiplier and that it shouldn't go up to 4x. My defense is that a LOT of awesome stuff happened to me this week.
Fair 'nuff.