The Funniest "CRAP" You'll Ever Hear!, Do NOT read while eating or drinking

All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning
computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething
cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over
forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart
the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing fiber
cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a
bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from work, my
insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the
occasional tiny fart that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I
had to stop at the mall to go Christmas shopping. I completed this
task, and as I was walking past the stores on my way back to the car, I
noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was
prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a
wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to
the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1
through 5 for your convenience:

1.Occupied.
2.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
3.Poo on seat.
4.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5.No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trousers and
sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful shitter. I wasn't happy about
being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet
sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and
then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a
cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it
needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The
inane conversation went on and on. Mr. .... was blathering to Mrs. .... about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I
became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a shitty day, but
I was too polite to yak about in public. My bowels let me know in no
uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be
getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the
stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of
colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a
very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall. The
sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not
unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance
frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent: (1) The
next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing
indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now
beset by a horrible, eldritch stench. It was as if a gateway to Hell
had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall
and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended
his conversation in mid-sentence.

"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No,
baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear
that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and
blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff
in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous
force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had
actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on
to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he
desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation
made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible...
throw up... in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love
them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and
retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door,
followed by string of swear words and gags. My poop-mate had dropped
his phone into the toilet.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing
there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting
from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must
have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock,
and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the
bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for
the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing
was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy
mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the
bowl. Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the
bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around
for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my
supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my
anonymous poop-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring
himself to poop in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his
cell phone in the loo. And this, my friends, is why you should never
talk on your phone in the bathroom.