Taking a Dump in Public

It was a half-moon kind of day, when the sun shines but it doesn’t, and the neon radiation glows through commercial establishments to give way to material expenditure. It was a ritzy kind of upper-class Sears with fancy chandeliers made of blood diamonds which twisted and misshaped rays of light. I sat on a comfy chair while my parents shopped for their hi-def something-or-other. The comfy-chair was enveloping my ass whole, as I silently let out low hums, vibrations of my putrid insolence. My passing of gas squeezed through the cushiony material of the comfy chair almost as if the air did not leave the crevice between my ass crack and two cheeks. Very slight vibrations, at most. Playing it casually. But then the smell arose and my initial hypothesis proved to be false. It reeked like tomato soup and left-over, microwaved fishsticks. In other words, not a good situation.

I don’t shit in public.

This was the problem. This code of conduct stuck with me ever since my grade three class when toilet paper was out. I was in the stall for the remainder of the day, before they sent out the janitors to search for me, worrying I had been kidnapped.

I run into the bathroom, the long, snarky fluorescent lights buzzing in laughter. Flickering. I walk into a stall and the graffiti boasts a survey as to which large-titted woman is the hottest; Lucy Pinder, Pam Anderson or Jessica Simpson.
Quietly, I place strips of toilet paper neatly onto the toilet seat and flatten it, two long vertical strands and one horizontal at the end to act as a barrier between my ass and the grimy seat. I sit. The openness kills me. The creases in the to the closing of the beige metal door edges... the open air and open feet underneath the stall... what if some kid decides to roll underneath and surprise me with punch in the balls?

I concentrate. And force myself.

Then, the door to the guys bathroom opens. A man with heavy-boot foot steps walks in, opening the stall next to mine and taking a seat on the seat next to mine, tearing down his pants and letting it rip. The stinks in the room between the two of us begin to meld into a cornucopia of rotten squash. I begin to lose track of which smell is mine and which is his. I do not finish the job, wipe, pull up my pants, and am the fuck out of there.

Next up was church. My parents followed their early sunday capitalist parade with some praying to the big man upstairs. This gave me a chance, I knew the bathroom at the church was a single stall with a lock on the door. I run in, past the pews, past the left-over incense filling my lungs and shaking my bowels to a bloody pulp. I squeeze my ass cheeks tight, but I can almost feel the shit crowning, trying to squeeze its way through down my intestines and masquerade as the not-so pleasant feeling of a fart.

I run into the bathroom. A crucified Jesus adornment is hanging on the wall across the toilet seat. Holy shit.

I rip down my pants, ready to sit, even avoiding placing toilet paper and then I see the most vile thing I have ever see in my life. The toilet seat had a blot of blood on it, surrounded by yellowy-whitish puss. Someone must have had a prime pimple on their ass which the toilet seat inadvertently squeezed for them. The remains remained, like ground beef in a grinder.

I swallow the puke in my mouth and let fate take its toll.