I went to run the Baybridge marathon this weekend in Virginia Beach.
It was Sunday, and Saturday night I took the family out to a restaurant where I had the tradittional pasta dinner.
Later that evening, I’m sitting on the toilet with a good back, attempting to clear my mind, and my bowels for the upcoming run (You don’t want to run 26.2 miles with a full colon.)
Things are progressing slowly down the intestinal tract, and I get the sense that any minute things will work out. It’s late and my wife and daughter are asleep, nonetheless there comes a knock on the hotel bathroom door.
“Daddy?”
“Yes.”
“Whatchoo doin’”
“I’m Pooping.”
“Let me in.”
“No. Go away.”
“But I have to poop.”
“Just wait.”
“Ok.”
Everything’s quiet for a minute or two, and I successfully do my business. Right as I’m concluding, there’s another knock on the door…
Heh heh-- I thought that was the way you’d chosen the commode over the bidet.
I hope you were able to get it all up off the carpet. Hotel cleaning staff don’t get the renumeration that poop-removal warrants.
To be honest, I found your correction a little alarming-- only because I can’t see the word “book” in quotes without thinking of the Son of Sam’s bizarre euphemism.