I know that as a woman, I’m not supposed to talk about this stuff, but dammit, today put me over the edge. Poop. Shit. Dookie. Crap. There, I said it. Hi, I’m jay-c, and I can’t poop in the presence of others. I hate pooping at work. Despise it. Thankfully, this works out for me 99% of the time, and I’m not forced to do anything but good ol’ #1 while at work, but sometimes it sneaks up on me. You can’t win 'em all. So while I hate having to poop at work, I’m not about to deny my body its basic need to rid itself of waste.
I’m a one-woman show. I won’t shit in a public bathroom where someone’s already occupying a stall unless it’s an absolute emergency. I work on the third floor of a four-story building. If someone is in the bathroom on my floor when I arrive, I go I go to the other end of my floor and try that bathroom. If that one is in use, I go down to two and check that one. Occupied? Rinse and repeat. I’ve gone as low as two and as high as four but not the lobby. So far, anyway. If I’m in a stall preparing to proceed with a #2, and someone who obviously doesn’t follow my rule above comes in and starts crapping, I’ll wait her out. Apparently, I’m not the only woman with the “wait it out” strategy - I’ve had women try to wait me out, too - but they don’t know who they’re dealing with. They are clearly outmatched. I will die on that toilet if necessary, bitch. The longest I’ve ever had to wait is 20 minutes and thankfully there was an Avon in there to pass the time. I realize that operating this way, I could possibly run into a string of several crappers in a row and spend literally days in the john, but I haven’t had to yet.
While I readily acknowledge that my shitting practices are at times inconvenient and often require a little extra effort, I don’t just do it for the privacy aspect. I also do it as a courtesy to the women I work with, ensuring that they don’t unexpectedly walk into a cloud of less-than-flowery fumes from my lunch at the Indian place up the street. Alas, if only every woman in my office operated at this level of politeness. But no - I had to run into YOU. You beat me to the bathroom by at least five minutes. Not a lot of time, but obviously time enough for you to seriously unburden yourself in the stall. The depth of your incredible stench was only completely obvious to me once I was already seated and mid-piss. Bitch, you took my breath away, and that isn’t something I ever thought I’d say to another woman. Every orifice in my body slammed violently shut as your scent assailed my nostrils. Now, I’m no shit expert, but I would say your shit is about as foul a shit as I’ve encountered.
As my eyes watered uncontrollably and I forced my bladder to empty itself so quickly and forcefully that I feared I’d soon find my inner workings splashing into the water as well, I held my breath. Feeling queasy, I fought to keep my lunch inside my stomach, and not on my pretty new sandals. The toilet groaned as you flushed, straining mightily against what must have been the biggest obstruction the office plumbing system has ever encountered. I imagine that the toilet usually thinks it’s pretty tough; able to handle nearly anything with all its tremendous water pressure… but no - today, you made this toilet your bitch. I frantically finished peeing as I made plans to exit the restroom faster than a whore leaving a confessional. As I opened the door to make my escape, you somehow managed to trundle out of your stall and get in front of me. How the hell did that happen? A large woman, you moved with deceptive speed to block the door. Okay, you probably didn’t mean to block my exit with your elephantine, polyester-clad ass, but you did. I stood behind you for what seemed like eternity, knowing that if I so much as opened my mouth to say, “excuse me, can I get by here?” that my lunch would soon follow. I knew that if your stench actually got inside my mouth as I spoke, my digestive system was sure to engage in such violent reverse peristalsis that the splashback from the tile would surely soak us both. So I held my breath as you washed your hands.
Of course, such a power shitting deserves an equally intensive hand washing. Sweet Jesus, woman! Only an obsessive compulsive takes as long as you took to wash. I think you missed a spot somewhere near your elbow. HOLY FUCKING HELL, MOVE THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY! I continued to hold my breath. I wondered if this is what it felt like to drown. Scenes from “Titanic” flashed through my mind, along with various scenes from my childhood and vague kindly remembrances that I’d long forgotten. I was in a long tunnel and I was edging toward the light. Your shrill whistle brought me back like a set of deftly applied defibrillator paddles. Yeah, I guess I’d be cheerful too, you bitch, if I’d just excreted ALL the toxins from my body in one fell swoop. Moving at approximately the same rate as a giant blob of frozen molasses, you reached for paper towels to dry your hands. I steadied myself against the wall, closing my eyes and fighting my instinct to breathe. Death was surely imminent. As you turned, you said, “Oh, do you need to get by?” YES, YOU STUPID CUNT! I NEED TO GET BY! I NEED AIR! I WANT TO LIVE! In reality, I think I was more polite than that, but I can’t absolutely positive.
My oxygen-depleted brain must have blacked out at some point, and the seconds stretched out endlessly as I watched my life again flash before my eyes. As I opened the door, a waft of gloriously sweet, fresh air enveloped me like the warm arms of a long lost best friend. However, I was not out of the woods yet. The bathroom door closing created a bit of a backdraft and as soon as I began to take an involuntary gasp of breath in, I knew that longed-for fresh air would also be tainted with a bit of YOU. As I smelled you again, I thought of everything I could to avoid vomiting my lunch upon my new white dress. Kittens? A sunny meadow of fresh flowers? The air speed velocity of an unladen swallow? Something, anything. Somehow, I survived this second assault upon my nostrils, and have lived to tell the tale. Sure, meeting you may have taken a month or so off of my life, but I AM ALIVE! So anyway, to wrap this up - if you’re reading this, Ms. Fecal Grim Reaper, please eat more fiber. And email me your schedule so I can adjust mine accordingly. I don’t ask for much.