It happened again.
I’m playing a fool’s game, thinking that I might be able to adequately describe the parade of horrors that has so afflicted me. Our language just doesn’t have the right inventory of words to paint the picture precisely as I have seen it, but my therapist believes writing it down might help assuage some of the anguish, so here we are. I should mention also that I scrapped the idea of this pit thread a while back, because I believed that everyone is entitled to a mistake. I typed something very similar to what you are about to read, I moved the mouse pointer over the ‘Submit’ button, I hesitated. I trashed it.
It happened again.
And now the pitting must be done. You don’t deserve this any more than I did–and I really do apologize for what’s to come–but I believe in making my problems other peoples’ problems. Some things you just cannot bear alone. Again, sorry.
I told my story to my therapist with shaking hands and frequent breaks where he consoled me through episodes of terrible screams caterwauling around the room, my fist jammed into my mouth in a vain attempt to stifle those screams. And I told the story again in a room filled with world-class psychotherapists and HAZMAT officials (some of which frequently left the room with hands cupped over their mouths, presumably to stop breakfast ejection). Now, I’m telling it a third time, to you, and the third time, they say, pays for all.
It amuses me to think what Marcel Proust would say of the unisex bathroom where I work after one of my coworker’s bombing runs. No, there are no crumbs of Madeleine swimming in spoonfuls of tea, of that I assure you. There are no exquisite pleasures, nor memories triggered by the scent of angel food cake or sea spray. Fuck that. I’m talking about pain here.
It seems one of my coworkers has taken her kids to the proverbial pool, or took the dogs to the pond, or backed the big brown motorhome out of the garage, or cripped a crapple, or downloaded a brownload, or curled one off, or dropped the Browns off at the Super Bowl, or pumped a clump of dump out of her rump, or erupted the anal volcano or choose any other term of toilet humor that suits you. This really isn’t such a big deal in and of itself, and I have no illusions that my own odors are any less offensive than average, but there is something different going on in this bathroom, oh yes.
Let’s just say she got her Cheez Whiz nozzle a little too close to the cracker and she also waited a little too long to dump the boiler and the pressure was just too high. At first I thought someone had detonated an M-80 in a bowl of equal parts Jell-O Pudding and Veg-all with Reese’s Feces carefully shelled, then flung like handfuls of gravel stucco-style all over the back wall. Then the smell hit me, and it was clarion. The stink was hot and alive, an assault which raced up my nose faster than the bitch slap of a humming bird. It was a whiff of funk not unlike a Gorgonzola cheese and cat shit sandwich dipped in hair color chemicals. From the door, the view was her muddy magnum opus, a modern art masterpiece, if you will. The wall behind the toilet and the seat itself were her canvas, and I got the first private screening. I discovered the true nature of pain and suffering, and it has a name.
Shit Stain Sally. it’s got a nice ring to it and I imagine it’s better than Snatchy, The Cum-Catching Clown, which was reserved for another coworker for another reason entirely and another pit thread perhaps. Yeah, Shit Stain Sally, a pretty good description of her panties that by now must certainly resemble a used coffee filter.
So Sally, this one goes out to you…
Who the fuck do you think you are, Red Adair, battling 80mph winds and 70-foot waves while putting out fires with your ass aboard the Piper Alpha Oil Platform?! And is there some reason that you couldn’t bring yourself to clean up the mess? Did you see an image in all that human waste that resembled The Virgin Mary wearing a top hat and Ugg boots yelling “verboten!” into the asshole of conch shell balanced on the back of a miniature pony? Were you going back to your desk, perhaps to get your camera? Jesus Christ fisting a three-balled Himalayan Yak, it looks like a Johnny Cash song in there!
And just what in the fucking fuck can a crusty bag of shit like you eat that would remotely look or (sweet bleeding Christ on a cracker) smell like that. Was it a fucking platter of prune burritos stuffed with undercooked chicken and Ex-Lax? I’ve never seen shit without the skin on it! You nearly fucking killed me! I walked into that room right at the apex of breath and had time to get my zipper about halfway down before the smell of you raced up my nose and short circuited my inner electrical system. The room quaked, then shifted. My vision blurred then smeared. My IQ went from 145 down to the level of a construction worker named Slappy, who took a crane hook to the temple while attempting to demonstrate to a coworker how drafting works in NASCAR and now refuses to refer to pasta as anything other than ‘noodles’. One minute I’m thinking of what it might be like to do a line of coke off a Girl Scout’s ass, the next minute I’m down on the floor doing the Curly Shuffle! When Domestic Dave–the spousal-abusing, sawed off, puppy-fucker who’s so homophobic he can’t even chew the gum that squirts in his mouth–found me convulsing on the floor, he and a stench weary crew had to scrape my frontal lobes with a rusty coat hanger to bring me back from the abyss! I had to go home and burn my fucking clothes and shower with Brillo pads like a rape victim in Attica for three hours straight!
Jesus H. Christ cleaning a Port-A-Potty legless at a bran muffin factory in Mexico woman, have you no dignity?! Have you no respect for your coworkers? Is it too much to ask that after your starfish cranks out a few boxes of cake batter you grab some paper towels and turn the fucking sink on? The least you could have done was bash the nozzle off a couple of commercial-grade cans of Lysol, chuck them in there with a road flare and weld the fucking door shut! perhaps you could’ve kicked a couple of skunks around the room for an hour or two to assist in covering up the funk?
Look, we know you don’t care, we really do. We’ve heard you when you’re in there alone. We’ve come to recognize the sound of your bowel movements, like a couple of blown tires on a Mack Truck, flapping down Interstate 95. We’ve all shuddered at your war cry as it booms from beyond the bathroom walls.
"Speak to me, ol’ toothless one!"
I get this mental image of you straining so hard that your face is more wrinkled than Barnaby Jones’s ball sack as you–no doubt from the evidence at hand–power squat over the bowl like an orangutan with osteoporosis and redefine thrust to weight ratios in ways that make Boeing Design Engineers masturbate like red-assed baboons. We’ve pretty much given you carte blanche over that bathroom and we sure as fuck don’t go in there if we think you might have laid rope within the last four hours.
We don’t ask much (fuck, we’re too afraid), but can’t you at least warn a mother-fucker when you leave the bathroom in ruin? Perhaps then I wouldn’t have to leave a Euthanasiast-sized hole in the fucking wall because I can’t see the door through the fog? You don’t even have to say anything. Hell, Just kick me in the balls so hard that my cock spot welds to your shoe if I look like I’m even heading in that general direction and consider a good deed done!
As long as I fucking live I know that I will never get the smell of it out of my mind. Marcel Proust has his Madeleine and tea, I have the malodor that could draw a blister on a septic tank. Marcel Proust undoubtedly got rich writing about scents and the memories they conjure, whiIe I am currently making the bulk of the payments on my Psychotherapist’s fucking Lamborghini!
FUCK!
