This Is Not A Phone Booth
Editor's note: this story was a finalist for the Best Poop Report of 2005.
Ever since I had my gall bladder removed last summer, my bowels have become a three ring circus. The days of the daily, dependable Trans-Atlantic cable extrusion are gone. In the ring to my right we have the barely-damp mortar; in the ring to my left we have the fiery ass-piss; and in the center ring we have the fecal equivalent of miscarried fetuses. Another inconvenient manifestation of my gall bladder removal is now I can only hold my stools for a few minutes. I used to be able go half a day in a clench if I had to.
In my middle age, I have gone back to school. On this particular day, I went to the Chinese buffet across the street for lunch before attending a lecture in my secondary education class. Well, about halfway through the lecture I could feel my entrails start to expand. Not only that, my guts started to exhibit the loudest borborygmi my body has ever produced. I didn't want to draw attention to myself or madden the hard-nosed professor by leaving before the lecture ended, so, like most human fools in intestinal distress, I attempted to ride it out. But the concept of not drawing attention to myself dissolved as the noises in my pipes became very long and audible, the loudest of my forty-four years. I know they are on some of the tape recorders used by students to record lectures. Some of the people started to giggle under their breath and the professor looked around with a scowl on his face, thinking that someone had to be artificially making these noises.
The lecture ended twenty minutes later as the turtle started sticking his head out. With the caca inconsistency consistent with gall bladder removal, that turtlehead could well be pyroclastic lava flow for all I knew. I ran, bent over, to the bathroom. I was clenching so tight that if I had had a ten-penny nail up my ass right then I would have snapped it in half. I went in and bent over some more to see if there were any legs in the three stalls. Two were occupied, but the handicapped stall was open. Thank God -- I would have shat in a urinal if I had to. I ran, opened the available door with the unbearable pressure bearing down on my dung donut, and saw that there was piss all over the toilet rim! Here I am in an institution frequented by men eighteen and over and still there is an infantile moron who has to piss all over the seat.
It was a desperate race against time wetting the paper towels, wiping the rim, and then drying the rim with dry paper towels. I felt like I was in an Alfred Hitchcock movie as my field of vision focused like tunnel vision on the paper towel dispenser, the sink, and the toilet rim. I could hear people talking like it was a far away echo. My tinnitus became deafening. I was already drenched in flop sweat. I finally finished the clean-up and, continuing the Hitchcock film motif, the toilet seemed to get farther and farther away as I made the final dash for it.
Finally I pulled down my pants, did the two-handed cheek pull-apart, and collapsed on the toilet -- and not a nanosecond too soon. Just before my butt cakes touched the rim an explosion rivaling Mt. St. Helens rang through the bathroom, followed by the splashing sounds of solid matter impacting water at sixty miles per hour. It sounded like someone had poured a bushel of apples in a full rain barrel from ten feet above. Then more gas erupted from my tortured anal orifice as more solid matter came out, making me feel that I was passing salt shakers alternating with a foul gas that smelled like fetid pork lo mien.
The next loud noise I heard took me completely by surprise. It was a couple of large bangs on the stall wall from the shitter next to me. Then a voice bellowed: "Godammit, I'm talking to my wife! Damn, that is so rude. Keep it quiet, you sicko!" He had been talking on a cell phone while evacuating his bowels.
My surprise turned to rage in an instant.
"Listen you asshole, this is a shit house, not a phone booth!"
I looked down at the bottom of his stall to see the only vestige of his presence besides his voice: pleated pants collapsed over two-toned wingtips. Two-toned wingtips! This was 2005, for Heaven's sake. I was now enraged; thank God I was able to call up some loud, wet farts when I heard the man hang up his phone. He pulled up his pants, left his stall, banged on my door three times and called me the name of the offending part of my anatomy as he started to exit the bathroom. Boy, that enraged me. I had resolved to find those shoes and call that asshole out. I wished for one more blast before that sum'bitch left the room; and thank the Fates, I let a loud, wet, sloppy intestinal death rattle as I yelled, "Kiss for you and your wife, asshole!"
Like they say, be careful what you wish for. The induced fart was followed by a stream of about a gallon of pure, burning yellow bile. This happens a lot in my post-gall bladder era. When it does, I instantly fantasize that I am taking a dump in a Swiss chalet in winter, where I reach out of the bathroom window, snap an icicle off the eave, and stick it immediately up my anillo del fuego.
After the tempest in my colon subsided, I started wiping my ass; of course there was yellow liquid on my cheeks as well. But when I started wiping the sphincter proper, it seemed my ass would not get clean. It was like there was a magic marker up my ass.
I got up to survey the damage. As I struggled to stand up straight I could feel a wet warmth on my back: there was liquid filth all over my shirt tail. Apparently I didn't fling it up as I sat down and it went below the rim to get painted with filth. The contents of the bowl were the most fowl smelling soup I had ever produced. It seemed that the massive amount of toilet paper I had used had already disintegrated in the ass morass. That odor would hang in the air for days. I hoped the reek wouldn't permeate the pages of my school books lying on the stall floor.
I took off my shirt and washed it in the sink. I was getting strange looks from guys going in and out to relieve themselves; some audibly complained of the stench. One guy bitched at me on his way out. "This is a shithouse," I countered. "What the hell do you expect?"
Attending the rest of my classes that day, I looked for Mr. Telephone Man and his wingtips. But I couldn't find him. I hope his wife enjoyed my audio bumpkiss.
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