I had a phone interview scheduled this morning with an IBM manager to talk shop about a new offering that he is itching to get some coverage on. That's fine. No big deal. I looked up his contact information, picked up the phone, dialed the appropriate number, listened to the phone ring, and. . .
Almost the exact instant he picked up the phone, at almost that EXACT instant, my stomach made an angry gurgle that sounded as if a pit bull had been turned loose in my intestines and was chasing a rabid squirrel. Before the sound even subsided a little bit, my large intestine made a massive and overdue delivery to my colon. I mean, this was sudden, and the situation went from uncomfortable to truly drastic in less than five minutes.
But, there I was, stuck on the phone, trying to jot down what the guy was saying, trying for all the world to write down direct quotes while all the while my mind was screaming "What are you doing!? Don't you realize you have to shit bigger than at any time in your life?! Don't you realize how dire the situation is?! Get off the phone, you fool! Run, do not walk, to the bathroom! Right! Now!"
But, this was a very busy man I was speaking with. Setting up the interview had been tricky. Plus, I didn't know how to just tell him I had to go while he was in mid-sentence. And he had a lot to say, and by that I mean he just wouldn't stop talking. He droned on and on and on, while I sat, butt cheeks clenched, tears welling up in my ears because now things had simply started to just plain hurt.
I tried several times to head off the conversation, I tried to steer him in a direction that would lead to a prompt end to the call, but he just kept going down different paths, almost as if he secretly knew I was just nanoseconds away from blowing a mud cake that would coat the entire office. The pain and discomfort were becoming unbearable.
Finally, FINALLY, I was able to get off the phone, after the most excrutiating 28 minutes in recent memory. I shuffle stepped out of the office and started a mad dash for the bathroom, only to discover that. . .
The cleaning ladies were in the bathroom! They had that stupid fucking yellow "Do Not Enter" sign propped up outside the door. Un-fucking-believable! The world was conspiring to make me crap my pants.
I shuffled back to my office and grabbed my badge. I then gingerly made my way down one floor to a different bathroom, which, upon entering, I discovered that every damned stall was occupied!
Except one.
One stall door was ajar, indicating vacancy. My glorious anal release was just moments away from being realized. I entered the stall and closed the door behind me. That's when I noticed the flusher on the toilet was non-existent. There was no flusher. It was a flusher-less stall. There would be no flushing being done this fine day.
No matter. This was an emergency situation, after all. In a truly dextrous display of de-pantsing, I shimmied my jeans down at about the same instant my sphincter finally just gave up the clench. I won't disgust you with the details, except to say I felt as though the Dairy Queen soft-serve machine was stuck on high.
Of course, since there was no flusher, I had no choice but to leave my handiwork for someone else to deal with.
Hey, it's not MY job.
Heh.
Heh, over 800 visitors to this site today already, and it's not even noon yet. Tara Reid's breasts are apparently still a hot commodity on the Internet today.
Posted by Ryan at August 5, 2003 04:29 PM
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