Let me tell you guys a little something about poop.
A few days ago a friend of mine sent me a link a classic Craigslist post entitled "I wanted to talk to you, but I had to take a shit - m4w. The hapless craigster’s post begins,
Those of you who have ever really, really had to shit know the story is nonsense[sup]1[/sup] at this point. Why? Because of Friedo’s First Law of Poop. To wit:
- The severity of your poop emergency is inversely proportional to your fear of any bathroom.
Stated simply, if you’re afraid of the bathroom, you don’t really have to poop.
Given the fact that the bathrooms aboard Metro-North trains aren’t even particularly bad – they’re comfortably in the zone between 40-year-old cross-country Greyhound bus and small regional airliner – we can conclude that this dude’s story doesn’t even rise to the level of poop emergency poseur.
A couple weeks ago, I went to see a movie with a different friend. I think it was I Love You, Man, which seems oddly appropriate somehow.
After the show, we dined at a little Italian restaurant which we hadn’t been to before. I had the lasagna. It was good.
After consuming said delicious meal, we walked along 42nd Street towards the Times Square subway station, so that we might take our leave of one another and retire to our separate abodes. It was somewhere in the midst of this perilous journey, at one of those fungible brightly-lit locations between Port Authority and Broadway, that I felt The Rumbling. I’m sure you all know what I’m talking about. It’s that bloated yet hollow feeling of increasing pressure in your large intestine that makes you stop dead in your tracks, gently place your hand upon your belly, and exclaim, “oh my.” If pure dread were a physical sensation, it would be The Rumbling.
“Fuck,” I opined. “I really need to take a shit all of a sudden.”
“Okay,” my friend replied. He was never very much help.
I remembered that after the big Times Square Station renovation project, which was undertaken back when this city was flush with cash, a number of public toilets had been added to the station. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Taking a shit in a public bathroom in a New York City subway station? Surely, you must be mad. But I hadn’t developed sudden onset mental illness; I needed to shit. And don’t call me Shirley.
“Besides,” I reassured myself, “it’s not like these shitters are open to the public. You have to request a key or something.” I read somewhere that they keep them clean. Plus, they were relatively new. How bad could they be?
My friend departed to take the appropriately named Flushing Line back to Queens. I continued on, now looking forward to the presumably pleasant adventure of using a Times Square toilet in all its glory. I went to the little corridor where I remembered they were located, and encountered a metal grate.
Upon this grate was an engraved sign which informed me that the lovely free toilets cease operation at exactly 12:00 midnight. I looked at my watch. Now, I’m not one to brag, but I happen to possess a sophisticated timepiece which sells for five figures[sup]2[/sup]. I consulted my atomically-synchronized chronometer and came to the incontrovertible conclusion that it was exactly 11:56.
Bastards.
So I had no choice. I would ride the train back home to Brooklyn and drop my deuce there. I was confident. Certainly the healthy, well-toned 27-year-old muscles surrounding my anal sphincter could withstand this sudden onslaught of trouser chili pounding against it like teenage girls outside the doors of a Jonas Brothers concert.
Fortunately, the Q arrived quickly. I boarded, found a spot, and sat down.
This was a deadly mistake. As it turned out, I had inadvertently turned the very forces of Gravity against me. For as I shifted my assular orientation from standing to sitting, the full weight of the chunky sundae in my colon was brought to bear. Oh my.
I encountered a dilemma. Do I continue to sit, with every wheel-clacking train vibration sending shivering spasms of horror directly up my asshole, or do I attempt to stand again, possibly loosing a toxic load of diseased manure upon the innocent bystanders on that lonely, cold, fluorescently lit Q train at a quarter past midnight?
This brings us to Friedo’s Second Law of Poop:
- A person’s IQ is directly proportional to the severity of their need to poop.
It’s true. Having to shit really bad makes you smarter. I didn’t realize it at the time, but in the space of approximately six minutes, I had analyzed over 61,000 best-path solutions to an acyclic directed graph representing the entire New York City subway system, sans rush hour services, with an overlay indicating all known public bathroom facilities in a four mile radius that were open past midnight.
It was time to act. Carefully, with a mental focus so intense it would decapitate the bastard love-child of a Jedi and a Vulcan, I stood up. I managed to contain myself, and disembarked at Union Square.
BTW, you know how I’ve described the sensation of sitting down under these circumstances? Well, I’ll leave up to the imagination what it feels like to climb stairs.
I made it to the surface. For a moment, the cool night air felt refreshing on my sweaty brow. Then I remembered why I was sweating so much in the first place.
I looked around. I hadn’t remembered Union Square being so eerily quiet at night. The businesses and restaurants were all closed. I remembered, however, that there is a convenient McDonald’s franchise somewhere around 15th Street that is open late.
Simultaneously, I made two terrifying realizations. First, the Mickey D’s in question was on the other side of the square. Second, I was beginning to have contractions.
Never having given birth (I lack the requisite uterus, vagina, and sex life), I do not possess an adequate frame of reference to compare the feeling of my impending shit explosion to, say, squeezing a miniature human out of a hole which previously accommodated an erect penis. Nonetheless, I am confident the comparison is apt.
The faster I walked, the more frequently my butt muscles would spasm. The longer I took, the more urgent my need. Truly, Euthyphro himself has never encountered a greater dilemma.
I made it to McDonald’s, and I made it to the men’s room. I’ll spare you the humiliating machinations involved in acquiring the key thereto. Upon entering, I executed The Maneuver.
That brings us to Friedo’s Third Law of Poop.
- A person’s speed, grace, and agility approach infinity as his control over an impending poop approaches zero.
This rule is also known as The Great Asymptotic Ballet of Poop, which brings us back to The Maneuver. I am sure you have all executed this maneuver at some point in your life. It occurs when, in the space of mere nanoseconds, one closes a door, unbuckles one’s belt, pulls one’s pants down, puts the toilet seat down, pirroettes, and places one’s ass in the general vicinity of the crapper, all while simultaneously achieving sweet, sweet release.
Verily, a poop of legendary proportions issued forth. Sweating, out of breath, shivering, and crying tears of joy, I felt, for the first time, spiritually filled with a unique kinship for all mankind.
Then I noticed they were out of TP.
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- You might even say bullshit.
- If you include the cents.
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