Is there anything more humiliating than clogging the office toilet?
How about being witness to said clog?
I won’t describe what I just saw in the men’s room at my office, but by now you’ve probably figured it out. As for me, the image is permanently fused in my brain. When I’m at my grandaughter’s college graduation from Mars University sixty years from now and the robot school provost beams her degree directly into her head, I’ll still be flashing back to the swirling soup of swill that confronted me on June 3, 2003.
And let’s just say that when I stepped into the stall, the bowl was filled to the brim, just barely contained from breaking loose and making a disgusting situation even worse, and as I backed away in disgust (note: time elapsed between the two actions, about 1/100000000 of a second), wouldn’t ya know it…? The automatic flush sensor sensed me stepping away from the toilet, and, well, it automatically flushed.
And then there was a splash, and a rapidly expanding circle of water followed me as I raced outta there.
It must be humiliating for the guy who did it. He probably flushed at least three times, praying to his God of choice that it would all be sucked down the drain into blissful excretory oblivion. But instead, the water level just got higher and higher each time he attempted to flush. Then, he quietly slipped away and left the mess unreported so no one would know he was the perpetrator.
But he’s out there. There are a limited number of suspects. This idiot (hello, if you’ve got a big cleanup job, how about an intermediate flush or two?) is roaming the halls of my building, hanging his head in shame and hoping no one will ever know. But I’ve got something on him. I’ve seen his poo.
Yuck. I’m going to go throw up now.
… but where?