Sunday, November 19, 2017

the extent of my curse

I live under a curse: whenever I sit down to take a shit in a public restroom, someone else will barge into the bathroom within sixty seconds of my ass's touching the toilet seat. Tonight, I was at the office until just after 2AM. As I was prepping to go back to my place on foot, I decided to take a pre-walk dump in what I assumed was a completely empty fourth floor. I went to the restroom, dropped trou, settled onto the target-reticle-shaped toilet seat, and began pumping out my glorious filth.

Not even a minute into my sin of emission, the restroom's door opened, and an old man shambled into the restroom—probably one of the nighttime guards who normally sit at a desk in the lobby and go on occasional patrols inside the building. I knew he was an old man by the grunting and sighing noises, but the robust, thunderous, youthful fart he let out while urinating came as a true surprise. The smell of the fart, however, was ancient: noisome and redolent of long-dead pharaohs.

Having shot most of my wad a second or so before the old man had barged in, I could only reply to this impressive micturo-flatulent display with a single lame, fecal plop. The old man left; I wiped, flushed, washed my hands, and departed the restroom, too, eager to put this incident behind me and just walk the fuck home in the below-freezing weather.

No comments: