I could have called this "Stories From the Shitter" or "Journies in the John" or something, but I figured that might be distasteful, if not stetching the bounds of incredulity. Anyway, on with the story...
After lunch today, I felt the familiar stirrings in my bowels signalling an imminent avalanche of fecal matter. Naturally, I did what any self-respecting man would do. I stood up, turned around, and farted.
Then I sat back down.
Unfortunately, that didn't seem help much. So with a great sigh, I got up, walked on over to the men's room, and entered. No one was in there, so with the grace of a cheetah (a retarded cheetah on amphetamines) I slid into a stall and began the process with which we are all quite aquainted with.
In the midst of my toils, someone walked up to the urinal next to my stall. I heard all the usual noises (foot shuffling, the unzip, etc.). Then the stream began, and I heard him spit. That was but a portent of what was to come.
His stream continued for what seemed like ten minutes. Then, I heard a gargantuan roar. I looked down to see if my porcelain perch was housing a sea monster, but there was nothing out of the ordinary there. Confused, I looked around, when I heard it again. Then I heard a completely satisfied sigh from the urinal.
Then the stench hit.
I have to say, if Saddam had figured out a way to synthesize that chemical weapon in mass quantities, we'd all be fucked. The only way to describe the smell that came forth from his nether regions is that it was an unholy mixture of sulphur, burnt rubber, and wek-old bacon omelettes. I gagged, my eyes watered, and it was all I could do to keep from passing out. "Don't breathe, whatever you do," said a little voice inside my head. I shut my eyes tight, held my breath, and prayed that the noxious air would dissipate soon. Meanwhile, I heard the perpetrator of this small-scale terrorist act make satisfied sounds, zip up, and leave the restroom. Without washing.
Anyway, after a while, I thought my head would explode. I felt pounding in my eardrums. Finally, it got to the point where I could no longer bear it. I gave in, opened my eyes, and took a breath. Thankfully, the air was clean. Relieved, I continued to go about my business.
The door opened again. A pair of feet in sneakers walked by my stall, paused, and entered the next one. My eyes reflexively widened as I recognized those sneakers. It was my boss, the one I had internally nicknamed "Douche Licker Kenny," DLK for short. As I got up to clean up, I made sure to keep my feet out of view of his stall.
I finished, but the sounds coming out of the stall next to me were so enticing that I couldn't help but stay and listen. First came all the usual noises of someone worshipping at the Temple of Porcelein: the unzip, the pants drop, the golden shower. Then, however, came a new type of sound, one that I was not familiar with. It sounded like a cow trying to give birth; a moo crossed with a roar. If I had possessed a measuring device then and there, I have no doubt that the shaking produced by the sound would have far and away eclipsed any previous mark on the Richter Scale.
The roar came again, and I held onto the edges of the stall for dear life. Then came another most unusual sound; like marbles dropping into a pool. It seemed that ol' DLK needed some Metamucil in the worst possible way.
My day having been made, I exited the stall and proceeded to wash up. I dried off with a paper towel, which became completely soaked. I was about to throw away that paper towel and continue on with my day, when I paused. This could be part of the instrument of my revenge for days upon days of shit assignments from DLK.
I worked fast, as I had no idea when Kenny would overcome his constipation and let it all out. I took as many paper towels as fast as I could, and wet them all. These were then made into balls.
I leaned out from the sink, took careful aim, and launched one of my homemade missiles into Kenny's stall. From inside I heard an exclamation of suprise. This was turned into one of horror as about twenty more followed the first.
My ammunition spent, I opened the door and waltzed out into the hall, avoiding several coworkers, who gave me confused, and somewhat condecending looks as they realized I am mentally disabled. I smiled in return and continued on down the hall to my office. I sat down in my chair, spun around a few times like a five-year-old, and smiled. All was finally right with the world.
-------------------- I didn't go to college. I went to Ozzy Osbourne University. - Zakk Wylde
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