Why You Should Never Use a Cel Phone in the Bathroom

[Bull Barrel]

Ok someone posted this on another site and was laughing my butt off...

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All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning
computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething
cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over
forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the
process, beginning my day with a bowl of *beep* cleansing fiber cereal,
following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch
at Taco Bell. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with
subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that Big Things
would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the mall to pick up an order
for the wife. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores on
my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything
Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent
cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I
hurried to the mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have
numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:



1. Occupied.



2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied
one.



3. *beep* smeared on seat.



4. *beep* and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.



5. No toilet paper, no stall door, something growing near base of toilet.



Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped trou and
sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful *beep*. I wasn't happy about being
next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.



I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds
of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound
of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone
conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of
Shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on
and on. Mr. *beep* was blathering to Mrs. *beep* about the *beep* day he
had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the
loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I,
too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My *beep*
let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day
would be getting even crappier.



Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer
cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand
against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded
with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone
ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall.
The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not
unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency
of the stall, and it shook gently.



Once my *beep* cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became
apparent:



(1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing
indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by
a horrible, eldritch stench.



It was as if a gateway to !!!! had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made
its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald"
fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.



"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of
choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear
that (gag)??"



Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear
that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and
blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in
me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later,
in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to
ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now,
all I could do was hang on for the ride.



Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he
desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made
themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up...
in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids... love them... oh God..."
followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.



Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at
the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding
down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear
words and gags. My *beep*-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.



There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I
could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal
announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily
into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a
fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him
running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.



After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage.
I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew
that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that
unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.



As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl.
Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom
with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.



I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and Shameless, looking around for a
face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural
elimination has managed to transfer my Shamefulness to my anonymous
*beep*-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to *beep*
in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in the loo.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the
bathroom.

[Troy]

unreal, i am freaking crying. i cant breath, got tears rolling down my cheeks, and coughing like i swallowed concrete dust. that is funny.

[troy2000]

A cautionary tale indeed...

[Troy]

the guy with the cell phone. been in, and put a few in that position myself a time or two.

[Bull Barrel]

And I was worried I might get banned....you sick bahstahds, heh heh heh....

[Big Dog]

At some time, most of us have been in a similar circumstance. Bwahahaha! :right:

Once, I was surprised I didn't have the paint peeling from the walls here at work. Bad beer, good sausage and questionable eggs the night before will do that to a feller . . .

Once thought I was gonna do it in a local Mex Restaurant - but I managed to 'blow the ballast' from the other end.

[Oxford]

That story broke me up. Had to send it on to my other sick friends.:right:

[Uncle Red]

Wife keeps yellin at me to "SHUT-UP! I CAN"T HEAR THE T.V.!"

Man that was funny!

-UR

[WetKnife]

You know how you really could have put the screws to him . Ask him to call 911 you just herniated part of your large intestine !

[LET-CA]

After letting a long string of farts loose in a stall one day I could sense the "unease" of the person in the next stall. I calmly said, "Give me a minute to tune this thing and I'll play you some songs." He quickly left without replying. It was all I could do to not laugh myself silly.

[WetKnife]

Did u sound like this ?

http://media.putfile.com/gewichtheberin

[Joey l mur]

:cheer: :jaw:

[Bull Barrel]

Unfortunately I was stricken with a touch of the pandemic last week and towards the end there even the dog was looking for the door to get out of the house....