The Public Restroom Gift

It is easy to determine the quality of the food you eat by the manner in which it leaves your body. You know what I mean.

I had to drive to Marquette, MI recently, and it’s a long drive—7 plus hours solo. I wanted to make good time so I left early. One of my many foibles includes the delicious taste of breakfast sandwiches from fast food joints. I love them despite fully understanding how terrible they are for my health. Nevertheless, on this morning I order a combo sausage egg croissant—actually two of them. I am a growing boy after all. The order also included, per my choice, a large cup of coffee.

For those you do not drink coffee, let me point out something. Nothing is a better expectorant for one’s bowels than coffee. Dulcolax ain’t got shit on coffee. It seems to stimulate, loosen and hasten all at once.

So after I eat my glorious American morning breakfast, speeding down, or rather up I-75, I feel as though I can evacuate my bowels with prejudice, but cling to some notion of “making good time” and thus leave the fetid stew a brew in my bowels. However, being that I am seated, it seems that the urge is blunted, if ever so slightly. No way could I be walking around with the steaming stew.

Well, I drive for a good three hours and need to stop for gas. The urge has sort of settled a bit by this time. I would not say I was comfortable, but at some point it became manageable. I can deal with it, as the urge had not increased in any significant way.

But once I pulled into the local gas station and before I even got out of the car, my bowels dispatched a warning shot down my ass cheeks. “Oh fuck,” I thought as I strained every available ass muscle to pinch off the rest of the lava flow. I heard my bowels gurgle.

How did my bowels know that I was close to a toilet? I was fine for hours, and then once I stop, wham, the gathering masses make their presence felt. And felt in a burning way. It’s amazing.

So I walk into the station to relive myself and find the bathroom being cleaned. “Christ almighty,” I think. Still straining my ass cheeks, I walk out and begin pumping the gas. I hear gurgling noises. I am being warned.

I walk back in and the lady cleaning informs me that the women’s bathroom is open and that I should use it.

So I quickly rush into the nearest stall and let the deluge begin. It was a torrent of several burning steams. More mushy than solid, like milky oatmeal. Only this oatmeal burned as it left. And the smell. Christ the smell. Vile, simply vile.

Anyway, I am oddly feeling good despite my asshole feeling like lava had spewed from it, when the bathroom door opens. The crack between the bathroom door and the wall was wide enough to get a good look. I see a fat, meaty white calf through the crack. The foot was jammed into a shoe that looked like it was straining to stay together. The shoe laces were missing and the tongue was distended out like panting dog. Before she goes further, the attendant informs her that I am in the bathroom. Out goes the gross calf.

So I am still sitting in my own stench, forcing the last stubborn stew from my body, when the fat, milky, gross calf comes back in.

“Are you still in here?”

“Did you see me leave?” I am not sure else I am supposed to say. I wonder if her bowels were threatening her, too.

Eventually, I get up to leave the stench, and turn around to flush. And there I see what came from me. Not a pleasant sight, to be sure. Caked onto the bowl, just above the water line, is a nice nasty splotch of shit, like brown mashed potatoes—homemade, given the impressive lumps. It was like the shit exploded from me and went everywhere. Not down, but out, to the right and left and everywhere in between. The equivalent of G-force power. Nasty.

The toilet was more of the residential type as opposed to those industrial ones that seem to able to suck anything down. No this one was nice and sedate. I flushed and the gentle, creek stream of water flowed leisurely down over the shitty lump barely taking anything with it. The shitty lump was too strong for the flow. I flushed again. Stubborn was the lumpy shit, and it did not move.

There was no way I was washing the shitty lump from the bowl—that was the cleaning lady’s job. Besides, it’s always nice to leave presents.

I left and smiled at the vile old fat lady, who was languishing outside the door. I can only imagine her reaction as she looked at what I left her. First the smell, like whiffing ammonia and having to violently jerk your head away from it, then the awesome, shitty lump. I giggled all the way to the bridge thinking about it.