Three years ago at Thanksgiving, someone took the most awesome shit I have ever seen in the men's bathroom at my office. And I mean awesome in its literal sense. This freakish dooky inspired awe.
We were a small shop then, only about twenty people, and we took up the entire fourth floor of a building. Of those twenty employees, only five of us were men. The five men all received an email that morning that went something like this:
"If that is your baby in the bathroom, please take care of your mess."
The next 'reply to all' was, "oh my fucking god!!!!1 it's inhuman! whose is it??" and so on until everyone had replied with A) astonishment and B) denial.
One by one, we all filed into the john, to see the shit that launched an email chain. This thing was a monster, as big around as the wide end of a dixie cup, and so long and dense that it would not flush. When the water ran out of the toilet, the log just wedged on the sides and sat, malign and gruesome, waiting as patiently as a carrion bird for the toilet to re-fill.
It mocked us.
I'm pretty sure we pissed on it all day long. I know I did. But none of us could break the back of the beast. It deflected piss; it absorbed urine into itself, strengthening its fibrous mass in a mockery of nature. It crouched in the bowl, absolute; majestic and unsinkable, a toilet Titanic in an iceberg-less bowl. By five-o-clock the shit was still there. It was our Gibraltar.
I don't know whose shit it was. There was some casual talk that maybe some fantastically constipated street character came in to our offices to drop his bi-yearly shit into our stall, but no one believed it. One of our own made that thing; a crime made all the worse for its denial. Our culprit was unrepentant. One of us dropped a dookie that he was afraid to toucheither unwilling or unable to break it in half with his hands to make it go away.
One of us was frightened of his own monstrous shits.
I don't know what happened to it. It appeared on a Friday, and by Monday it was gone. All traces of it removed and sanitized and the email thread looking more like hyperbole than shock. I like to think that the monster flopped out of the bowl, and slithered its way onto the San Francisco streets where it ekes out a living charging tourists $1.00 to gawk at itself. Perhaps it has joined a cult, or perhaps it has started one. I don't know.
I do know that I will never forget. And now, neither will you.
We were a small shop then, only about twenty people, and we took up the entire fourth floor of a building. Of those twenty employees, only five of us were men. The five men all received an email that morning that went something like this:
"If that is your baby in the bathroom, please take care of your mess."
The next 'reply to all' was, "oh my fucking god!!!!1 it's inhuman! whose is it??" and so on until everyone had replied with A) astonishment and B) denial.
One by one, we all filed into the john, to see the shit that launched an email chain. This thing was a monster, as big around as the wide end of a dixie cup, and so long and dense that it would not flush. When the water ran out of the toilet, the log just wedged on the sides and sat, malign and gruesome, waiting as patiently as a carrion bird for the toilet to re-fill.
It mocked us.
I'm pretty sure we pissed on it all day long. I know I did. But none of us could break the back of the beast. It deflected piss; it absorbed urine into itself, strengthening its fibrous mass in a mockery of nature. It crouched in the bowl, absolute; majestic and unsinkable, a toilet Titanic in an iceberg-less bowl. By five-o-clock the shit was still there. It was our Gibraltar.
I don't know whose shit it was. There was some casual talk that maybe some fantastically constipated street character came in to our offices to drop his bi-yearly shit into our stall, but no one believed it. One of our own made that thing; a crime made all the worse for its denial. Our culprit was unrepentant. One of us dropped a dookie that he was afraid to toucheither unwilling or unable to break it in half with his hands to make it go away.
One of us was frightened of his own monstrous shits.
I don't know what happened to it. It appeared on a Friday, and by Monday it was gone. All traces of it removed and sanitized and the email thread looking more like hyperbole than shock. I like to think that the monster flopped out of the bowl, and slithered its way onto the San Francisco streets where it ekes out a living charging tourists $1.00 to gawk at itself. Perhaps it has joined a cult, or perhaps it has started one. I don't know.
I do know that I will never forget. And now, neither will you.
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