Wal-Shart
Posted 02.27.2008 by pooptastic (34)

Some of you may remember that I was pretty neurotic about pooping in public, and that I still am. But I have become a lot more relaxed than I was in the old days, when I was extremely OCD. (Therapy can do wonderful things.) Now I am only slightly terrified by the thought of butt germs getting me in public bathrooms.

So I like to poop at home. Pooping is a happy *me* time, and I want to enjoy it, bask in the relaxing state of utter relief, and not worry about the scary diseases I could potentially get from the shitter. And yes, I realize that public restrooms are usually cleaner than the ones at home, and that they get cleaned a whole lot more often. But I know who has been sitting bare-assed on my toilet at home: me. There is no fear of the unknown and/or potentially unwashed ass there.

This story begins simply enough: I was at work at Wal-Mart, in the photo lab. I felt a little gassy. Sometimes this happens; and when it does, I usually just step behind the printer, pretend to check something, and let a few off. I learned early on that holding in toots leads to please-let-me-die-now-it-hurts-so-bad intestinal cramping. It is much better to release the slight stink than to hold it in and cause unbelievable amounts of pain in my lower abdomen. Plus, the exhaust from the printer does wonders for killing any weird smells.

That particular morning, though, I was walking towards the back to turn on a machine when I felt a little fluffy knocking at the back door. I didn't think much of it, so I gently let it escape.

Instantly I knew that I was in deep trouble. Such an innocent fluff should not feel so warm. I was terrified that I had just shit myself, and with seven hours of work to go. Immediately I started to review everything I had eaten within the last seventy-two hours, trying to determine the culprit of my humiliation, while walking very quickly to the bathroom -- thankfully, a short trip. I rushed into the bathroom and made a beeline for the handicrapper (which I prefer because the toilet is up higher).

I checked my underwear, but it was clean. It was a short "oh thank goodness" moment: I didn't have shit pants. Then I felt the urge to fart again. Worried that there might still be something lurking up there, I decided to play it safe and fart over the toilet (without actually touching the nasty thing). I did not want a shart in my pants -- the neurotic in me would have freaked out to all new levels.

So I carefully balanced myself over the toilet, foregoing the toilet seat covers (I learned from experience that they just cause more problems, since I don't sit anyways). Not really thinking, since my mind was still in a panic from the poo-scare, I didn't do the best job of aiming my poop chute. I released the fart and felt the weird sense again that there was something more to that toot (a pooptoot?).

I turned back to survey the damage and discovered that I had just sprayed a disgusting watery brown liquid over the back of the toilet. After the initial giggling stemming from the mental image of how this happened and how, later, I would probably hear about it from the maintenance associate, I became horrified by the mess. I actually knew the person who would have to clean it up, and I didn't want to make his day shitty -- literally.

I quickly grabbed some paper towels and disinfectant and hosed the whole toilet down, cleaning it up as best I could and realizing that Turd Terrorism is a lot harder when you're friends with the people who have to clean.

About forty-five minutes later, the urge to water-fart came again. This time, when I headed to the bathroom, it was closed for a scheduled cleaning. Dismayed, I now had to decide whether to go up front or to the break-room bathroom. I chose the break-room because it was closer.

I quickly walked over to the bathroom; and this time, I sat down. I did not want another episode of spraying the toilet. IIn emergency situations, I've learned, I'm able to put my OCD-based fears aside.

They were the wettest farts of my life.

Later that day, I told my really good friend who also works in the lab what happened. For the next week, every time I headed to the bathroom, he would remind me to use the toilet, not the wall.