misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

I just returned from the battle of my life.

Usually, if forced to take a crap (or what girls might refer to as "having a number 2") in a public place, I try to wait until the bathroom is totally empty. At various places of employment, I've gone so far as to go in the bathroom with every intention of launching a few butt missiles, only to find that somebody is in there, so I have to fake that I only have to take a piss or wash my hands, then go outside and wait for that person to leave. I'm not sure where this fear of pooing with people around comes from (probably some sort of combination of Catholic fear of dirty things with a splash of social disorder), but I do know it is a part of me. Any time I've tried to overcome this fear, I find myself trying to poo really quiet and noiselessly, which, given the amount of beer i drink, is quite challenging. And it interferes with the pleasure of taking a truly refreshing dump. So, I am resigned to my curse. The curse of having to investigate a bathroom before beginning launch sequence to ensure it is 100% empty.

However, earlier today, I was caught unaware. My new place of employment has a public bathroom with four stalls. As one can imagine, it can be quite a source of consternation to find the privacy I require for pooing (finding new ways to say "taking a shit" is one of the more enjoyable parts of writing this blog). So I was pleased when I entered the bathroom a few moments ago to find the bathroom was empty. After lining the toilet with two layers of toilet paper, I sit down and grab Volume 4 of Winston Churchill's "World War II" historical. Suddenly, I realize I am not alone. Someone, who clearly hid all sounds when I entered, had managed to trick me. He was in stall number 1, and I was in stall number 3. The battle had begun. Could I outwait him? Wait for him to leave before beginning my unloading?

While deep in thought, I unfortunately let slip a loud fart that I was unable to hold inside any longer. In other words, I rocked him. The sounds reverberated against the cheap, tan porcelain walls. I smiled knowingly. I had launched the first volley. A warning shot. My own personal Bunker Hill.

The battle had begun.

He was not bashful in his response. Clearly, I had an opponent of equal skill as myself. Within moments of my own mortar launch, he let go an artillery barrage that would have made General "Monty" Montgomery proud. War had been declared. He was not backing down from the challenge. The depth and power of his barrage stung my ears and my nose, yet I refused to be intimidated.

In good fortune, my diet of fried foods and beers gave me an ample ammunition dump within my descending intenstine. I decided to put forth a battery which he would not soon forget. I launched 88s, 112s, and some RPGs in a spectacular display of sounds and force. The shock waves alone caused immediate impact damage to the stall doors. My message had been sent.

Clearly stunned, my opponent was unable to reply. He came back with the small tinkle sound of urine, and a nearly impercetible sound of poop hitting the water. I literally had scared the crap out of him.

Pleased with my performance, I pulled up my pants, flushed and left. I hadn't even crapped. I guess it was just gas giving me the feeling that I had to crap. Either that, or my scared, cowering little poos were unwilling to come out in the presence of another human. Apparantly, my body has determined a privacy system. Farting in front of anyone and everyone is acceptable. Taking a dump in anything other than total privacy, however, is not.

I guess we all have our things, don't we.