Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Cold Shitter

The most uncomfortable part of my workday has to be poo time. Not because I’m clogged up or suffering from loose stool or anything related to the functionality of my bowels, which, in case you were wondering, operate smoothly and efficiently. But rather, for some awful reason, some person(s) decide to leave the window propped open at all times in the men's restroom. Now, this is San Francisco, so there’s no snow, but it is a rainy and wet 45 degrees this time of year so when I waltz into the bathroom in my casual work attire a fierce chill takes me. It’s almost like jumping into the Atlantic, except this is a bathroom so I can’t shriek and thrash about until I get numb. It’s even worse when I rush myself into the stall and drop my pants to the floor immediately subjecting my ass and genitals to the frigid air and even more frozen toilet seat. I have never taken a colder, more uncomfortable shit in my life and believe it or not, I am actually a veteran of uncomfortable shitting.

I am no longer embarrassed to admit that I am an Eagle Scout and as such I have loosed my bowels in a variety of environments. I’ve taken dumps alongside mighty Redwoods and pooped in the snows of Lake Tahoe. I’ve had to wipe my ass with a wide variety of leaves and detritus and random bits of paper on long backpacking trips. I’ve even unleashed a violent torrent of vomit and feces alongside a desert road in Death Valley while doing battle against an awful bout of food poisoning courtesy of Denny’s.

Once, when I was fourteen, at a Boy Scout camp in the woods of Maine we had a most unfavorable outhouse. It was a four stall wooden structure with a long trough for pissing, all under one roof. Not only did it have that acrid putrescence that is unique to ground holes that are filled with decomposing stool, but it was totally absent of any sunlight. Our Scoutmasters had also told us that raccoon’s breed in dark, foul smelling areas much like our outhouse and feast on any waste that doesn’t make it into the toilet bowl. Needless to say, I was not too eager to expose my barely pubescent buttocks to such a threatening commode. I resolved on the first day to make it through camp without using that bathroom for any purpose. Pissing was easy; we had a lake and hundreds of miles of woods around us within which to bleed our youthful lizards. Shitting, it seemed, would not be a problem. For the first three days of camp I had no need to make. Whether this was because of my conscious desire to stay away from that awful cesspool or because of the distinct lack of fibrous foods in our camp diet I cannot say. I can only say that in the middle of the fourth night, disaster struck. I awoke in an instant and instinctively rushed out of my tent and down the road to the outhouse. I stopped when I reached the latrine. It was even more frightening than I could have fathomed. There was a faint outline of the structure and then the murky dark pitch that paradoxically emanates from within. Having forgotten my flashlight in my haste, I briefly considered shitting on the outside end of the structure closest to the trees, but the problem of wiping was obvious. I bit my lip and rushed into the toilet. I made every effort not to yelp when my bottom hit the toilet seat with an unpleasantly unidentifiable squish and took what was then, and remains, the scariest crap I’ve ever taken.

But even that scary, hygienically questionable bathroom is not nearly as bad as the icy cold shitter in my third floor office building. And every time I sit there shivering on that God-forbidden toilet seat with my hands stuffed into my armpits or tucked tightly next to my scrotum [side-note: cold hands make for awesome hand jobs and/or masturbation] I can’t help but curse my now very fiber dense diet. My hands shake so profusely that just today I dropped a used piece of toilet paper smeared with fecal matter on the floor next to me after I was inspecting it post wipe. I can only imagine the horror my stall neighbor experienced when the slightly wet plopping noise attracted his attention downward, and the ensuing fright that the accompanying growl and quick hand picking up the used toilet tissue created. Who would keep propping that damn window open? I close it every time I use the facility and each and every time I return the awful thing is open again. I suspect this individual has a hairy ass and thus sweats profusely while on the can and possibly also suffers from IBS. Please sir, shave your ass and eat your vegetables, in the interim, I think I need to start wearing a sweater.

2 comments:

Michelle said...

1) eagle scout loser!
2) yes, san francisco is cold and miserable but you are not a giwl, so wear a sweater, you god damn pussy.
3) have you sometimes made poos so long in length that you can't believe it?

E said...

The point is, I should not have to wear a god-damn sweater when I am shitting in the office toilet! And while I can't remember any abnormally long turd, I have, in the past taken a shit that somehow got spun around sideways in the bowl and was so girthy that the flush of the toilet was not strong enough to break it up and send it away. I had to use the plunger to push it into the hole and flush repeatedly to get rid of the damn thing.