UPDATE: The undershirt is now flopped over the rim of the trashcan. The odor is present in the hallway. Flushing does nothing.
Dear Internet, sorry I wasn’t around yesterday. I realize that you build your day around the content found on this site, and when there’s nothing new you recede into a corner, naked and crying, every now and then peeking through your fingers to see if the site has been updated, and as the hours go on and nothing changes, you begin stewing in your own bodily fluids. Just buy a diaper or something, okay? I can’t constantly be around to tell you jokes. Sheesh.
Anyway, somebody’s ass exploded in our bathroom. I walked in there yesterday and was immediately smacked in the face with the odor. “Gee,” I thought to myself, “Somebody treated this bathroom like Hitler treated the Jews.” (And I don’t think it’s said enough, because Hitler is this larger-than-life type guy where he’s more myth than man, but he was a man, and more than that, he was a douchebag. I mean, can YOU think of a bigger douchebag than Hitler? No. I didn’t think so. And yet, I don’t hear people calling Hitler a douchebag nearly often enough. I think every time you mention Hitler, there should be a little asterisk after his name, and when you follow that asterisk down to the bottom of the page, there should be another little asterisk, and then in italics: Douchebag. That should be his legacy. He should be inexorably and inextricably linked with the word “douchebag”.) I fought my way through an odor so thick you could beat it into pancakes with a sack full of kittens puppies kittens and puppies, and arrived at a stall. I pushed the door open and my brain was immediately challenged with what I saw.
“Is that a undershirt? With poop on it? Did somebody poop in their undershirt? Why is there poop on an undershirt? Was somebody using their undershirt as underwear? That’s a lot of poop for one shirt. Did they use the undershirt as toilet paper? No, there’s toilet paper right there. Why would somebody poop in their shirt?”
My eyes were drifting as I was thinking, and they eventually settled on the full toilet in front of me. Full. Filled. Cresting the invisible plane of the top of the seat. An inhuman amount of poo.
I have no idea what happened, and I don’t really want to know, but I can’t possibly conceive of a situation other than an entire football team descending like a swarm of locusts on a Taco Bell (America’s only fast-food/laxative restaurant), only to stop in our bathroom 30 minutes later to deposit the end result and then deciding to run an unholy feces-train on the poor toilet, and at some point an innocent white undershirt must have gotten caught in the melee. And I feel bad for the janitor, but that shit has been there for at least 24 hours now, and it needs to go.
