Doo Unto Others
I was hung over this morning. In fact, my head says I still am. Last night I went for a few beers with the regular gang of cronies I meet probably half a dozen times a year. And, as usual, I forget that I can't drink like I used to. (Or, rather, I can -- it's just that I now always pay the price.)
I woke just after seven with a very unpleasant headache. I made myself porridge and a drink, and took them back to bed with a couple of extra strong painkillers -- my usual hangover cure. Whilst making the porridge, I felt a sharp stirring down below: the sensation that warns of a substantial deposit preparing for its exit. After taking my cure, I spent an hour or so looking at the internet before forcing myself to stir. I had to go and recover my car from where I'd left it near the pub last night. As I dressed, I could feel a (not unpleasant) heavy feeling in my bowels; but its cause was still not ready to make its entry into the world. I figured that the moving about I was going to be doing would hurry things along a bit.
I caught the bus to the nearby town that was the scene of the previous night's foolishness. Driving back, I thought I might as well pop into my local supermarket whilst out and about. As I walked across the car park, I felt a further movement in my guts, and a more urgent pressure started to build. "No problem," I thought. "There are customer toilets." I went into the men's, where the single stall was vacant.
It has to be said that a single stall is ridiculous under-provision, given the size of the store. But it was only just past opening time, and judging by the pristine condition of the facilities, I was the first sitting customer.
Despite the pressure I was feeling, this one was not going to come without assistance, and I had to push. It was big and hard and its exit was slow and a little painful.
Halfway through, a standing customer entered the room. I'm all for sharing, and I thought I would be able to provide a nice, loud, satisfying splash for his entertainment -- I would be embarrassed if the best I could do for any listener was a series of pathetic little plops. But I was first disappointed, and then alarmed: the bomb slid into the water with the merest suspicion of water disturbance. This could mean only one thing: I had given birth to another monster -- one that travelled only the smallest distance after completing its exit.
I turned to survey my handiwork with an apprehension that quickly turned to despair. One single turd, rearing up proudly several inches above the water level, with the other end out of site around the bend. Oh, God.
I wiped -- a rather messy one, too, it has to be said. The turd may have been hard at the front, but the end certainly was not. And then I flushed with little hope, pulled up my trousers, and looked again. Not having budged one millimeter, it seemed to leer up at me: "You weren't stupid enough to think you'd get rid of me as easy as that, were you?"
I stood there, looking at it with sinking heart. No toilet brush, stick, or coat hanger here. And it seemed to make it worse that I'd defiled the toilet with the first shit of the day. I thought of PoopReport, of turd terrorism, and of some words that had stuck in my mind: "I always leave the toilet in as clean a condition as I found it." A shattering realisation hit me: I have developed a poop conscience. Three months ago, I'd have shrugged my shoulders, turned around, and walked out. But today I just could not do it!!
So I took some toilet paper, wrapped it around my hand, and proceeded to manually dissemble the fruits of my labours into manageable chunks.
After two further flushes, the evidence had completely disappeared. I washed my hands and walked out with my head held high and a self-satisfied smile for the next arriving customer. PoopReport has achieved a different type of conversion: a socially-conscious shitter!
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