All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning komputer, incompetent komputers 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-kleansing fiber cereal, following it with six kups of koffee 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 and pick up an order for my fiancee. I komplete 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 kolon informed me with a sudden violent kramp and wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go.
I hurried to the mall bathrooms. I survey the five stalls which I have number 0 through 4 (I write a lot of software) for your convenience.
0. Occupied
1. Klean but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as its next to the occupied one.
2. Poo on seat
3. Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on the seat.
4. No toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of the toilet.
Klearly, it had to be Stall #1. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Sh1tter. 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 kame from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone konversation, the voice was exactly 8 db louder than it needed to be. Out of Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane konversation went on and on. Mr. Sh1tter was blathering to Mrs. Sh1tter about the sh1tty day he had. I sat there, kramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud konversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a krappy day, but I was too polite to yak about it in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't' get krapping soon, my day would be getting even krappier.
Finally, my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer kared. I gripped the toilet bowl 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 kolossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bet 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 konversation had ceased; (2) my kolon's kontinued 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. A foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and I began choking my poop-mat. This initial *herald* fart had ended his konversation 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 (kough, gag), you kould hear that (gag)??"
Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I kould swear that in the resulting kacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. Its sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd seen that the 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 kould do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I kould hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of konversation 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 a 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 kould envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement kame trumpeting from my behind, small chunks 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 konsiderable 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 kould 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 kan 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.
(The above was kreated for a komplete separate circle of friends who are the only ones who understand why it is even logical to take out "c's" in sentences and replace them with "k's".)
And now, for a kinda (that was spelled with a "k" on purpose) related to the above story.
The guy ^^ that created that video has a handy dandy website with a free e-book. Free is always good when it comes to advice. Why always good? Because you can listen and then either receive (if you'll use it) or discard (if you don't need it).
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