Poop Wars

No, this isn’t a jab or commentary on the upcoming Star Wars movie. To be honest with you, I’ve never even seen a Star Wars movie, and don’t plan on it. I know the bare minimum to get through society without having to face the shame of never viewing “the best movies EVER”: Darth Vader is Luke’s father, George Lucas decided to make the movies completely out of sequence, and if someone calls you Chewbacca, it’s not a good thing. I digress, as usual…

(I’m warning you now. If you’re the type of guy that doesn’t believe girls poop, and you’d like to continue having me as the lead role in all your fantasies [because I know I am] I would refrain from reading right now)

What I’m really talking about is a maddening (female) bathroom ritual. I can’t speak for the men, but I imagine they’re rather uninhibited about their bowel movements, so they probably can’t relate to what I’m about to detail. In keeping with irrational womanly principles, it is unacceptable to let anything pass through your asshole within 25 feet of another human being (there are exceptions, about 75% of my best girlfriends are exceptions [TRUST me], but I’m talking in general). This makes for some uncomfortable situations in public restrooms.

First of all, an attempting-female-pooper will choose the most discreet stall, most likely the last stall – also known as the handicap stall – what a sensitive humanitarian you are, shithead. When I walk into a public restroom (specifically the one at my office) and all the stalls leading to the last one are empty, I know I’m in for a battle. Immediate silence combined with awkwardness radiates throughout the facility. My opponent is at a disadvantage; I know her thoughts, and I know her pain…and FYI, I can’t smell so there is no chance of gassing me out. Sometimes I’m a nice gal and piss/wipe in under 20 seconds…even skipping the hand wash in order to give privacy. But most of the time I don’t have the best disposition at work, and I’m going to make somebody suffer.

I begin by slooooowly walking to the stall directly next to the pooper. I then wrap the entire seat in toilet paper, de-pant and sit - doing all excruciatingly slow. I then challenge myself to release the piss at the rate of an 80 year-old woman with a urinary track infection. A little painful for me, but worth the cause and it’s probably good for the kegel. I wait for a while by looking at each one of my fingernails, wipe, re-pant and flush. At this point, it’s been about two minutes, and I can spend another 2-3 washing my hands and checking myself out in the mirror.

I know in my heart the pooper is infuriated with me, and that there are beads of sweat forming on her forehead. So why does this give me joy? Well, like I said, I’m generally mean at work, but more so, I feel that I’m teaching a lesson. You have two choices, change your diet so you can hold off till you’re in the privacy of your own home, OR be loud, be proud and POOP.