Those who know me know that I love toilet humour. It should come as no great surprise then that I take great pleasure in sharing the following little story with you all:

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 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 squeak that Big Things would be happening soon.

Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order for the wife.

I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!"

This was prophetic, for my back side informed me with a sudden violent cramp that everything was indeed about to go.

I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:

1. Occupied.

2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.

3. Poo smeared on seat.

4. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

5. No toilet paper, no stall door.

ringing phone.......

As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB's louder than it needed to be.

Out of Shy, shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The insane conversation went on and on. Mr. Sh@#ter was blathering to Mrs. Sh!@ter about the crappy 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 it in public.

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 baritone burst 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. All in the pentatonic scale of D#.

Once my anthem was mute, 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, putrid stench.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened.

The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my chatty poop-mate. This initial blast 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, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. 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 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 a 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 drum roll announcement came trumpeting from my behind 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 stall door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I exited my stall. 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 crap 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. 

lol yeah what a shitty day but you can be happy new Zeland 4 Lunna Rossa 0 but dont tell Frank )

Funny story with graphic detail. The great feeling lightness after the deed was done... 555

SirJoe: I think Frank already knows. He has been unusally quiet ;-p

Matthew: Yes, the details are what made it for me.

Viggop: Facinating stats! :-p

You're full of ****

haha reminds me of this one time with sirkoe55 on a bus

I never want to stay in the john that long to come up with such a long story..........phewwwww!

LMAO! I bet he fished it out!

Hey, you oughta write horror novels!

If only it was my work inamorato. This however was just one of those forwarded emails. Given the topic, I couldnt not post it.