Dropping a Deuce at Work

It happens. You spend 8 hours (or more) at work per day. If you’re gonna hold it in, well, let’s just say the strength of your bowels would give Arnold a run for his money. You could drive home, but that’s a waste of gas (pun intended). You could hobble to the farthest bathroom in your building to reduce the risk of seeing a colleague, but clenched buttocks make this a dreadful task.

So you take a risk and go the bathroom near your cubicle. You evacuate your colon as quickly as possible—before anyone can walk in. But the stench hovers in the air like a heavy cloud of China smog. It ain’t going nowhere.

And suddenly, the door swings open and someone marches in. Crap! You think, with the awful realization that the latest visitor is probably thinking the same thing. You try to hurry. You wipe as much as you can, but it takes a miserable while.

With horror, you hear the other person is finishing up in the adjacent stall.

You flush and get the hell out of there, but of course, at the same time, the visitor emerges from their own stall. You make eye contact.

“Hi,” you say, your voice squeaking like a prepubescent child. As if your dignity hadn’t eroded already. You give a lopsided smile before quickly rinsing your hands without soap and sprinting the hell out.

...This may or may not be autobiographical.