Whoa is me.

I seriously thought I’d seen “it” all.
Some asshole decided to re-educate me.


We’ve all seen the interior decorating shows that are the current rage… Trading Spaces, While You Were Away, Check This Shit Out, etc..

Sometimes the effect works. Sometimes they resort to Faux Paint.

I walked into the company shitter today only to discover on the fucking seat a… let me find the correct word… aaaah yes, here it is… a fucking “splotch”. Some * Parading Feces* affecianado has faux painted the fucking seat with a big brown shit splotch. You know how artistic wannabes take a big glob of colorful medium, press it against some unfortunate surface and leave some ugly fucking “starburst” pattern? By all that is holie, what the fucking fuck is one of these doing on my toilet seat?

How did this guy get a big dap of shit on his fucking cheek? Was this fucking squashed nugget airborne at some point? The simple fact it was on the right cheek doesn’t make it so!

I migrate over to another stall only to find this ugly waterlogged serpent in an advanced state of decay waiting for me to send it on down the Ganges. Ain’t no Indian fucker with a flute that could ever resurrect that hidious monster.

Inhabiting the stall to the left is the remnants of an all-you-can-eat peanuts and corn festival. Fucking Iowan immigrants.

Here’s the rub. I had to shit like really bad. All three stalls provided evidence of the previous use of paper products, indicating three clogged shitters. Were I to try and use the stairs to get to another poopitat, I’d crap my pants.

I had to choose among the lesser of three evils.

Ever drop the kids off at the pool when it’s 'bout ready to overflow? The sensation of a cold poowater backsplash against my warm sphincter caused it to slam shut with the force of a locking bank vault. I leapt up from this stool from hell and immediately began applying prodigious amounts of buttwipe to my newly moistened ass. Yeah, this should do wonders to sucessfully aid in the next flush.

As I’m standing there acting like a one-handed fecal paper hanger, I hear the door open. I flush to announce my presence since I didn’t want him to inadvertently open the door and see me, Dante, and this scene from poopie hell.

As the water began to gush over the top of the supersaturated containment vessel, I realized I probably should have just stayed in bed this morning. I hear the motherfucking door open again and yet another victim enter the fecollesium.

I don’t know exactly why but this caused me to reach over and flush again. And again.

It was like a turd Niagra had suddenly sprung forth and I pleasantly listened to the sound of both these horror-stricken visitors immediately vacate the premises. But then I suddenly heard more doors open and footsteps rapidly fade. It’s like there were all sorts of hidden fuckers everywhere that were trying to get away as well. Doors slam, cabinets whack, a plethora of noise as every living thing imaginable does their absolute best to get the hell away.

I’ve one last task at hand. In order to vacate this fecally enriched stall, I grab the top of the inward swinging door and lift myself off the floor whilst hoping it’s hinges are somewhat tenacious, float elegantly over shit creek as it swings masochistically inward, wrestle myself around to the outer face of the door while attempting to retain at least the appearance of a tucked-in shirt, bounce delightedly off the poo-proximal wall and finally set myself down on the “relatively” clean shitter mezannine which, I knew quite accurately, to be empty.

I then walked past my friend “it”, the designer shit splotch, and proceeded outside to a divine freshness whilst praying there was not an offended audience there waiting for me.
What usually preceeds “it”? **“Shhhhhhhh.”
**I’ll never tell.

Dude, you are hilarious, but I’ve come to a decision over the past few weeks. There’s no way I could work at the same company as you. I’d be so preoccupied with your bowel schedule that I’d never get any work done. Also, you ought to drop a note in the suggestion box: more stalls in the men’s room. The existing ones are obviously overtaxed. A truly beautiful piece of work here, my friend.

Isn’t it ironic… I work for Shell and it’s like I’m confronted with a street-style shell game every time I try and crap.

No matter how much I move around, there’s a big assed turd in every stall I choose.

Go figure.

Do your office shitstools have tanks?

Your situation would have justified dropping an Upper Decker.

Would that be intestinal whoa?

I won’t sleep at night until I know what an “Upper Decker” is.

Or maybe I don’t want to know.

I’m with EchoKitty–I’d be so fascinated with lieu’s schedule I’d be reprimanded for nonperformance.

In LiveJournal the other day, someone had a poll about whether or not one takes dumps at work. One of the options was “no way” and I was stunned that anyone would choose it. I do all of my best “work” at work.

It helps that we have one-seater bathrooms, so you can have privacy.

I’m assuming an “Upper Decker” would entail standing on the seat first and then squatting down to drop the bomb. While a Euckershit might work for some, the blunderbuss that is my ass typically needs a bit more “direction”.

Which leads to the question…

Anybody ever shit their ankles?

Lieu, do they still let you into the company men’s room? Doesn’t everyone run screaming down the hall, waving their hands wildly over their heads, when they see you, key in hand, heading for That Door?


I always look forward to reading your posts.

I am glad I am not maintance staff at your place of employement.

I also feel the need to go clean my own bathroom right now.

  • maintenance*


I’ll take a crack at it… would an “Upper Decker” perhaps be removing the lid of the tank and unloading into it instead of the bowl?


What if you had only peed and then upon flushing a ripe turd suddenly appeared?

(Wanders off contemplating the possibility of mole shits).

Joogotit, brutha! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week!

Cranky, can’t you just picture yourself stealthly creeping down the hall after Lieu, listening fearfully at the men’s room door, waiting for some sign of trauma before you scurry away, hands at the sides of your head (“please, please…let me get out of the line of fire”). It’s frightening! Damn frightening!

It would seem that lieu really has the shittiest coworkers around.

:: rimshot ::

Note to self: never send resume to Shell.

I guess if I were to choose some kind of superhero powers, it would be the ability to pull down my pants, sit on the floor, lean back with my legs hiked into the air and fire turds at mean people just like a tennis ball launcher.


If one of the unlucky recipients were to bump into their doctor, he’d look at them and exclaim “Hey, you’ve got piles.”

Ya shoulda got into aviation, bud. We’ve got a toidy out in the hangar, single enclosure with its own heat/air, and a really loud exhaust fan, so you can make all the noise you want to. We’ve even got a kitchen mechanic that comes in twice a week to pressure wash the place. Life is good.

They guy that cleans your bathroom is also responsible for your kitchen?

I hear there are women from Thailand who can do that with pingpong balls and…um…


As for the Upper Decker, gonzoron has the right of it. It usually takes days to figure out why the water is coming out brown, and whence comes the tantalizing odor. You don’t want to be there when some poor sod lifts the lid.

Shitting the tank should only be performed as a last resort.


Funniest shit I’ve read in a while.

Thanks lieu.