Tuesday, July 29, 2008

So I am taking my afternoon deuce,

and am all out of sorts anyway (I am in a different one of our offices and thus removed from my home-field rettihs), when a guy makes himself at home in the stall right next to me (my issues with this lack of spacing shall be left for another day). Now, I am have a particularly fiber-rich day, and am feeling much lighter by the time this guy sits down. As I hear him choosing his stall, I give a courtesy flush--more for a warning than a courtesy. He doesn't hear it (and I now hope it is because he's deaf, for reasons that will soon become apparent).

So again, this guy settles into the stall next to me an unapologetically begins to thrash his toilet. I cannot believe what I am hearing. I am both impressed by him and scared for him, simultaneously. After he gets done carpetbombing the bowl for the second time, I decide that he is not going to do that next to me without a fight. So I settle in for a retaliatory strike.

I get the proper colon angle, I let the pressure build, I feel an overwhelming bubble form, and then I momentarily rejoice in a feeling of pride that comes with knowing that I am gonna blow the door off the stall and get even with this guy.

So there I am, locked and loaded, waiting for my moment and the thunderous boom that will follow, and then . . . I let out the highest-pitched, squeel of a fart I have ever heard. It lasted for about 4-6 seconds followed by an internal deflation that I can only imagine was the rest of my bubble deciding it did not want to be part of this sissy show and ran to my small intestine to wait for a more manly display.

Needless to say, I wiped while wallowing in my shame and dissappointment--followed shortly thereafter by a quick handwash--before exiting the scene of the crime as quickly and descretely as possible. I do not deserve my testicles.

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