This past weekend, I was at the local Dick’s Sporting Goods, enjoying a leisurely stroll around the store. It was at the sight of a very nice gaming table that my bowels spoke up. “Hey, Master Sparky, order up!” they yelled. Okay, no problem, Dick’s Sporting Goods knows and understands that the call of nature could arise at any time, hence their availability of a restroom. So I asked the first employee I found, a friendly gentleman who looked young enough that he’d be back in home room this morning, where I might find the restroom. I hated to interrupt his killing time by putting golf balls around on their fake green, but he politely pointed toward the other end of the store – up front, near the fitness equipment.
By now, my bowels were speaking again. “Yo, Sparky, we said ORDER UP!” I gritted my teeth, clenched my ass cheeks, and mentally muttered back, “I heard you – hold on, for God’s sake, I’m going, I’m going!” My walk became brisk, and before long I saw the blessed “RESTROOMS” emblazoned over a section of the wall in the distance. Soon, I would have my relief.
“Hey, Sparky, fire in the hole!” yelled my bowels. God, no, not yet! Now I’m trotting, almost breaking into a jog, as I weave around free weights and bicycle tubes in my quest for the porcelain. I fly through the first door – luckily it does say “MEN” – and enter the tiled stillness of a Dick’s Sporting Goods restroom. I scan quickly and see they have 1 suite and 1 single. Yes, I apply apartment terms to restroom stalls. I always opt for the suite – a very large, roomy stall that’s made for the handicapped. I can’t help it – I’m a larger guy, and I need the space. I also like the feel of the cold steel “armrests” as I do my business.
The door is partially open, so I’m feeling optimistic. Yes – it’s vacant! I close the door, slide the lock, rip off my jacket, drop my pants, and reach for the toilet paper to wipe stray urine off the seat left by an errant pisser. And with bowels now rumbling – I’m fully dilated at this point – I see there’s no toilet paper.
Up come the pants. I grab my jacket and hop next door to the single.
Make that a studio.
Like most fucking stalls, the door opens inward, so I have to practically stand in the bowl to have enough room to close the door. I reach down – paper, yes! – rip off a swatch and hastily wipe the seat. My elbows are hitting the fucking sides of the stall, but I don’t care, I’ve gotta go – the baby’s coming, whether I’m ready or not – and so I start to plop down onto the seat.
I’ve absolutely no room for my right leg. The mammoth toilet paper dispenser takes up the entire right side of the stall. I’m in a half-squat, my legs at a 45-degree angle, and in full labor.
“Oh my God,” my mind screams, “What to do? What to d–” Too late. I begin shitting uncontrollably. There’s plops, reassuring me that some of my aim is true. But there’s also splats. And that’s not good. I twist to the side and look down. Sure enough, I’ve carpet-bombed the entire left side of the seat.
It’s about this time that I realize I’m pissing uncontrollably as well, and I’m streaming all over the place – the door, the right wall of the stall. Now I really I’m in danger of soaking the precious toilet paper machine. Half of me wants to piss all over it, for it’s the main reason my crap missed 50% of the toilet. But the other half wants the paper dry, and so I force off the stream and reach for the paper.
No paper.
There was just enough for me to use to wipe off the lid (and a lot of good that did me). Now I’m half-crouching/half-standing in the stall, which is half-dripping with piss, above a toilet half-covered in shit. And there’s no paper in the entire fucking restroom.
I wonder what I’ve done to earn this. I can’t think of anything.
As I begin to panic, I see a sanitary paper dispenser on the wall above the toilet. Technically, I suppose it’s paper, but it more resembles the wax variety. At this point, though, I’ve no choice. If you’ve never wiped your ass with toilet seat coverings, trust me – you’re not missing a thing.
Despite my seething anger at Dick’s Sporting Goods and the demented fucks who architected the damn building, I even cleaned off the toilet (that took another 7 or 8 sanitary covers, not to mention a lot of will-power and gag-stifling). I went to the sink, half-expecting no soap – or no water – and thankfully received both. But as a final “fuck you,” there were no paper towels in the dispenser.
I staggered from the bathroom, disheveled and with dripping hands, and decided I’d had enough of Dick’s and their Sporting Goods for one day. And I know that, should I ever decide to return to that store, I’ll make sure I take a dump prior to going in. I don’t care if I have to strain until I burst a forehead vein just to produce a popcorn fart – I’m going at home before I step inside the doors of that store again.
