It’s been approximately three minutes since Threat Level: Apocalypse was declared. I’m being held prisoner in a pitch black four-foot by six-foot cell, my genitals exposed to whomever is unfortunate to come across me. A faint dripping sound is the sole harbinger informing me that I’m still among the living – a fact that, at this point, I’ve come to lament. Oh sweet release of death, where art thou?
I’m Joe, I’m stuck in the shared bathroom at my workplace pants-down and mid-shit with the lights off, and I’m absolutely terrified.
I am the Night Pooper.
I have only myself to blame. I knew my office complex had just recently installed motion sensor lights in the bathroom. I knew this because last week, whilst taking one of my signature twenty minute long “it’s halfway between lunch and the end of the day” shits, I made eye contact with a large, bearded Scandinavian man over the wall of the stall. After pinching myself to make sure I was awake and hadn’t passed out on the toilet a la Dr. John Dorian and dreamed up this whole scenario, I determined that this was, in fact, real life. For the sake of transparency I’ll admit that by “pinching myself,” I really mean “pinching it off” – the resulting cool drops of toilet water on my ass cheeks serving as my Inception-style totem.
“Uh, ocupado?” I managed to squeak out, mortified that this seven-foot-tall giant, who’s probably sporting a Bieber-status hog, just peeked my average-as-it-gets piglet and was laughing to himself about my inferiority.
“Terribly sorry, sir,” said the man in a voice so high-pitched that it startled me, causing me to pinch once again (having already defecated, the pinch yielded nothing – akin to the first time you come across a cigar cutter and give it a little air test cut to see how the mechanics work).
I heard the shoes-on-metal clack of his descent from the ladder upon which he was perched.
“Just trying to install this energy-saving motion sensor light system. I’ll come back later.”
Do you know one thing these energy-saving light bulbs aren’t saving me right now? Energy. I’ve been sitting here franticly flapping my upper body around like one of Al Harrington’s wacky waving inflatable arm-flailing tube men for the past three minutes to no avail. I even threw a wadded-up ball of toilet paper out of my stall “fire in the hole!” style in an attempt to light the room back up for me like a sanitary-grade flash bang, but the motion sensor didn’t pick that up either. My arms are starting to hurt, and not for the normal reason they hurt when I’m sitting with my pants down.
Again, I know I’m at fault here. Being the piece of shit that I am, I decided to take the handicap stall – the only stall far away enough from the motion sensors to where they don’t pick up the movements of those seated on the throne. It’s not that I don’t have respect for those that actually need the extra space it provides; I just think I appreciate that extra space more than they need it. Does that make me an asshole? Probably. Is this asshole’s asshole happy with that decision? Absolutely.
Being a cubicle jockey, the handicap stall is the closest thing I have to an office right now. I was considering bringing in a TV tray and my laptop and actually working from here one day, but I know Kim in Accounting would rat me out. We hooked up after the Christmas party three years ago and she has never gotten over the fact that I didn’t ever text her afterwards. Or that I puked in her foyer. Or that I mistook her bidet for a toilet and plopped a thunderdumpling the size of her dog’s head into it – a comparison I was able to visually make when Kim and I walked in on her dog sniffing the monstrosity. God that was a respectable shit…
No, Joe – stop. Stop dwelling on great poops past. You’re in a very real situation right now, one you need to work with your farthole to fix. Partner up with your pooper to troubleshoot. Rally with your rectum to rectify.
Wait, what was that sound?.
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