Dead Seriously.

This is going to be a post about poop. It’s going to be pretty gross. No one is making you read this–I kind of encourage you not to. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’ll regret posting this for the rest of my life.

About a week and a half ago (a week ago Monday), shortly after my lunch break at work, I felt some mild pressure–nothing spectacular, but just a subtle call for freedom. I had some small tasks to finish up, but around 1:30 PM I left my desk and strolled out of my office and made my way to the restroom on the 7th floor of the building.

Since neither stall was occupied, I took the pleasure of entering the one with wheelchair access. More leg room, see.

I did my business, and although I felt a little bit lighter on my feet and my slacks were a little bit more comfortable, I didn’t really appreciate what exactly had come to pass until I glanced downward at the toilet as I was reaching to press the flush-lever. As my eyes beheld the ridiculous girth of my deposit, I knew–KNEW–that flushing was a bad idea. You see, I had produced a Big Boy.

And yet, I flushed anyway.

As predictable as a geyser in Yellowstone, the water level rose. It turned yellowish-brown. Then, the swirling slowed and the mixture took on a burnt sienna tone. As the sludgy stew continued to rise in its porcelain container, the scraps of toilet paper began surfacing, blending their off-white hues with the brown, threatening to spill over the top of the seat. My heart began to race, but at the last second, the rising tide of sewage was stayed, and the swirl came to a complete stop.

So I left. What else could I do? I was wearing work clothes and I don’t have a plunger in my office anyway. I got back to my computer, and consulted with a friend who suggested just letting it soak for a while. So that’s what I did. I pushed it out of my mind for the rest of the afternoon, and didn’t think about it again until the next afternoon when, shortly after lunch, I felt that gentle urging once again.

As I returned to the scene of the crime, I thought to myself, “Surely someone else in this building has used the toilet since me…surely it just cleared up nicely after a good soak…surely the restroom won’t reek of my misdeeds…”

Alas. What I saw in the restroom would horrify even the most manly of men; the toilet indeed had been flushed–multiple times based on the evidence I could see–but nothing had “cleared up” in the slightest. Instead, the liquids had drained down, leaving the entire surface area covered in a thick layer of dried poop and shredded tissue paper. In a moment of bold recklessness, I tried flushing it again, and turned and ran as the hideous remains roared to life on the wings of putrid poop-water.

Walking back to my office, having found a different restroom to use, I knew that the proper course of action was to call building maintenance. But I didn’t.

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UPDATE: Today (Thursday), after a week and a half of being out of commission, the stall was open again for business.