So I’m sitting on the can at work. You don’t need a visual, just go with it. I’m just hanging out, having a good time, everything is right with the world and things are going well. Inevitably, here comes Joe Business Class through the door. I can hear his g*ddamn wingtips tapping from a mile away so I know its him. Also I can hear a newspaper rustling in his sweaty, diseased mitts so I know immediately what’s next. He saddles up next to me in the handi-stall after some fumbling with his Brooks Brothers, and then…well, it’s tough to describe what happens next. There’s no one specific word for it, but it’s this event that I have born witness to countless times. It is the perfect, succinct symphony of a megaton crap bomb detonating at the exact moment of a toilet flush, in some kind of sad, sad attempt at disguising the sound of one’s own wretched, god awful gastrointestinal propulsion. It never works, you’re never fooling me, plus the smell of your fetid cowsh*t is kind of a dead giveaway. Hey guess what. You’re an idiot. I heard it. It’s called taking a dump. It’s why we’re here, you ass. You, me, sitting on toilets. We’re not trying to hide anything at this point, because both of us have our pants around our ankles, precariously separated by a sheetmetal partition. Hey Mr. Fancy Flush – if you can’t handle pooping at work, maybe you should hold it in and kill yourself.
And all JBCs do this. I can’t even stand it. I’d ask all JBCs to stop this practice, but it is a futile request for a breed of human being who can hardly be bothered to wash their hands or wear rubbers.