Tuesday, January 10, 2006

Poop. Say it until it has no meaning.

I really enjoy poop. Poop is funny to me in almost every way. Today I was reminded of a way that I do not appreciate poop. See, at work we have this person we call the Phantom Pooper. This individual manages to skunk up our faculty bathroom almost every day around the same times and never get caught. It is surprising for a person with a poop pasttime, but I have an incredibly sensitive nose. Today my nose was wronged.
I decided in the New Year to start drinking the proper amount of water, a health regime at which I have failed miserably for many years now. It turns out that drinking the proper amount of water makes you pee. Kind of a lot. My abhorance for public restrooms makes this a very tricky goal to attain. Particularly today.
One of the reasons that I maintain such a distaste for public facilities is the potential for ungodly reekiness. I don't deal very well with ungodly reekiness because I also have a healthy gag reflex. Now I'll tell you about today.
I had a window of opportunity. I had had to pee for about 45 minutes, but I was waiting for That Moment. The moment when every head was in a book, on a computer, or out of the room. It came today at 10:55. I dashed down to the teacher's bathroom, hoping for a quick tinkle. A quick tinkle I received! One step in the door and my breakfast arose in my throat. I clapped a hand over my face and tried not to gag. The putrid odor assaulted me and threatened to linger in my clothes if I didn't hurry. My eyes watered as they darted angrily around the room. Where were the two (TWO!) cans of Cover-Up-Vile-Stenches spray that I had personally purchased for this bathroom? Spotting one laid to rest, spent in the trash, my heart sank. I briefly contemplated running down to the next adult bathroom, but I was under a tight time constraint.
I hurriedly shut the door, held my nose and took a deep breath from my mouth. I knew the smell was still out there and I swear, I could taste it. Holding my breath, I quickly undid my pants and assumed the Full Hover Position. Normally, this is unnecessary at school, but a horrific transgression had clearly just been committed upon this toilet. I wasn't taking any chances. Mid-stream, I grabbed for my nose again and refilled my lungs with the foul, tainted air. I tried to think other thoughts. Man, a healthy water habit creates a lot of pee! I desperately bounced up and down to speed the process. My lungs were gasping for air. Fresh air. Sweet, unpoopified, clean fresh air.
That's when a horrible thought struck me. If I was spotted leaving this restroom, they were going to think that I did this! Plots raced through my mind. What should I say? "It wasn't me! It was like that when I got there!" No, that's what someone who did it would say. I grasped my nose and went for another breath, then quickly zipped up, my imagination a factory of ideas. Sewage explosion? No. I saw who did it? No. I was stuck. And suffocating. I had to get out of there. There was no time for handwashing; this was a dire situation.
I hastily unlocked the door and threw it open. Heavenly lights blazed from the sky and angels played awe-inspiring music. Wheeze! I panted and gasped and tried to regain my oxygenated status. When my gaze cleared and the recommended oxygen flow returned to my brain, my vision focused on a student standing in front of me. Mr. Owens.
"Hi!" he greeted me, one hand in the air, the other full of foam soap.
"Erm...I think you're only supposed to use one squirt," I reminded him, joining him at the student sink and watching him attempt to sculpt his mountain of foam into a peak.
"Yeah, well, I figure most kids don't wash their hands, so my usage should average out," he explained, intent on his artwork. "What're you using the kids' sink for anyway?"
"Um, there's something wrong with the teacher sink," I stuttered, trying to dry my hands and remove myself from this line of questioning.
"Is that what that smell is?" he grinned, looking at me knowingly. Knowingly! Like I did it! "It wasn't me!" I yearned to shout. I stared at him stupidly while he coaxed his soap into a new shape.
"Quit playing. Get back to class," I ordered him, trying to be stern. Then I scampered off like a busted convict.
I DIDN'T DO IT! Someone else's foul emissions ruined a good piece of my day and now Mr. Owens might think that I poop, something I would prefer him not to address in any manner, spoken or unspoken.
I need a plan. I've been trying to figure out this mystery for several years now and have no new leads. How do you bust a pooper? How do you teach your hall how to spray? How do you get someone else to possibly donate some Stink-B-Gone? I buy the stuff and I don't even poop at school! [Note: I enjoy my own poops so much that I like to do them in a leisurely manner in my home if at all possible. Any school poops committed by me are quick, solid, smooth, and leave no ghastly green fog as evidence. Trust me. I'd spray. I'm a firm believer in the spray.]
So that is your task, dear readers. Devise a crafty plan for me to catch the Phantom Pooper. This chicanery has gone on far too long. I'll leave you to brainstorm. Me? I have to poop.

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