More than anything on this planet I absolutely hate taking a dump at work. Here we are in god damn 2011, and the whole thing still just still seems medieval if you ask me. The men’s room in our office only has one stall in it, so as a result whenever anyone enters and it’s in use, naturally the very first thing they do is look underneath to see who it is. Since we have a rather small company, you can pretty much always tell exactly who’s taking a dump simply by looking at their shoes. Size thirteen wing tips means it’s Jeff the CEO; turned over brown Hush Puppies is Chris from accounting; black orthopedics with an extra three inch lift on the right means Igor; and seeing how I’m about the only guy in the entire company under sixty five, anything that looks like it was purchased after the Nixon administration and eight track tape players usually means me.
I have a serious problem with this concept, so much that whenever I’m in there taking a dump and someone else walks in, I instantly begin to feel like I’m being judged. It’s so darn nerve wrecking that I can’t even relax. Mainly because I just know inside of all of their heads they’re thinking, “Boy, Brett must’ve had Italian again last night”, or “Gee… I wonder if he’s okay. This one seems to be taking a little longer than usual.” How can any one take a dump under that kind of scrutiny? I know if I had a dollar for every single time I walked in there and yelled out “Oh God Chuck that smells awful! What the hell are you eating at night… people?” I’d be rich. So I can just imagine the things those little judgmental bastards are thinking about me when they leave out. Believe it or not but I developed so much an anxiety about taking a dump at work, that my doctor actually had to put me on nerve pills. I was diagnosed with PABS (Public Anxiety Bowel Syndrome).
Truthfully I’ll never get it. We can fly people to the moon and shoot and edit full-length feature films from our cell phones, yet we still can’t find a way to design a bathroom stall that goes all the way to the ground. What’s with the whole peek-a -boo shoe action thing anyway? Was it designed to be some kind of an emergency crawl space in case something goes wrong and someone else needs to shimmy underneath and help? My feeling is, if you can tell exactly who’s in there simply by looking at their shoes, the whole “anonymity” thing just goes completely out the window. Hell, why not just remove the damn stall all together, that way when people walk in and see you taking a crap they can just wave and say hello? Can you imagine…“Oh hey there Rick, I see you’re back on oatmeal. Is that organic or steel cut?” or “Wow Sue, love the new highlights. We should maybe do lunch when you’re done.”
Finally after years of torment and drugs I eventually came up with the perfect solution. I started bringing in an extra pair of shoes to work just to slip on whenever I need to take a dump. I call them my “Shitting Shoes”. I wear my normal shoes throughout the entire day, and then when its time to go crap I discreetly slip on the other pair I keep hidden in my duffel bag that no one’s ever seen before. It’s genius! Now it doesn’t matter what I ate the night before; how much time I take in there; or even how much noise I make. I can completely go to town in there and no one ever has the slightest clue its me. I have even sometimes heard people outside the stall comment “Hey, who’s the new guy? He seems a little aggressive.” Its the most freeing experience of my life.
One day while running late for work my absolute worst night mare came to life. I completely forgot my duffel bag, so when it was time to go to the bathroom I was beyond devastated to discover I had left my shitting shoes at home. I couldn’t believe how careless I was. Out of all the things to leave at home I thought “how on earth did I leave my damn shitting shoes?” And to make matters worse, I had just finished off a big bowl of my grandma’s collard greens the night before. I frantically searched my desk for any of my remaining PABS pills, but to no avail. I was up “Shit’s Creek” as they say.
I went into that stall and no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t bring myself to go. I tried everything too like lifting my legs high off the ground so that no one else could see my feet; sitting on the toilet with my legs folded Indian style; I even tried going with both legs hoisted on top of the handicap bars, which by the way I don’t ever recommend. After slipping in and submerging my entire ass and half my back in bacteria ridden toilet water, I wanted to just die. Literally. Things were not looking good. Then just when I was about ready to give up all hope, I suddenly remembered in that moment that Gracie from sales was gone. Gracie is the little 70 year old Jewish lady whose cubicle sits directly across from the men’s room. With the exception of her little drinking problem, Gracie is literally one of the sweetest old women you’ll ever meet, so long as she hasn’t had a few too many glasses of scotch. To this day, Gracie is the only person I’ve ever known to be arrested for WUI (Walking Under the Influence) one day while walking home from her bingo social. And from what I hear that day old Gracie didn’t go down without a fight.
Ever since she got run over by that city bus a few months back, she usually spends all of her lunch breaks now in physical therapy. I remembered that since Gracie usually switches to her sneakers right before she leaves out every day, her work shoes were probably still sitting under her desk. So I discretely opened up the restroom door to take a peep and just as I thought there they were, a pair of old worn down Easy Spirit sling backs in battleship gray. I thought to myself, “Could I possibly get away with this?” Of course they were about five sizes too small for me but I thought then again, “I just need a quick pair of shitting shoes to throw on. It wasn’t like I was going to go jogging in them.” So with seconds to spare, I quickly grabbed them before anyone could see and then darted back into the stall to slip them on.
Alas I was saved. I could finally now take my dump in peace. Sure when people walked in it must’ve looked a little strange to see my big gold toe dress socks sticking out the fronts and backs of Gracie’s wedge sling backs, but let me tell you; that was one of the best damn shits I’ve had in years. For a second I thought “Hmnh.. Easy Spirit might really be onto something here with these Comfort Soles. I wonder if they make them for men?” It was brilliant! I couldn’t believe that I was able to pull it off.
When I was done I carefully placed them back under her desk exactly the way I had found them, and no one was ever the wiser. With the exception of poor little Gracie trying to figure out for the rest of the day why for some strange reason now, her entire foot kept slipping through the front of her shoes as she walked through the office, I was pretty much home free. At least so I thought. As luck would have it, later on that day I just happened to be walking by Gracie’s desk and overheard her boss Joe say, “Hey Gracie, can I speak to you for a second? Apparently… HR just called and said they need to see you. Something about you being drunk earlier today and accidentally using the men’s rest room?”
Then and there I felt just awful too. Mainly because I could tell from the confused look on poor Gracie’s face, that even though she had no idea in hell what Joe was talking about. In all honestly, she couldn’t exactly with 100 percent certainty really say it didn’t happen either.
Last Friday night after having a few too many cocktails in the city I decided to take the A train back to Brooklyn. Even though the A is known for being somewhat notorious late at night, I figured “Hell..I’m a guy. What’s the worst that can happen?” Boy was I ever wrong.
It was about 3 am so the train was pretty much a ghost town by now. When I stumbled on to the car I immediately noticed a group of girls huddled on the other side. Judging by the fact that at first glance you’d swear you were looking at the Wu Tang Clan and with voices just as deep, I think it was pretty safe to assume that they were all lesbians. Honestly, I’d never seen so many manly looking women before in my life. Between their Timberlands; baggy jeans hung low over their boxers; and the way they pulled their caps low as they each spit their favorite Ludacris lyrics. It suddenly dawned on me that they actually looked more masculine than me, as I sat there in my Levis skinny jeans, crisp white espadrilles, and my canary-yellow deep v-neck tee. So naturally I leaned back in my seat and continued listening to my The Best of Mariah Carey playlist.
When the train stopped at Canal, to my surprise another group of lesbians hopped on, and believe it or not this group was even more masculine than the first. They were all so big black and ugly that for a second I just assumed there was another Biggie Smalls look-a-like convention in town. Talk about thugged out. This new group of lesbians were so tough looking they actually made the first look like The Pussy Cat Dolls. Normally it would be every guy’s fantasy to be stuck on a subway car at 3 am with a bunch of lesbians. However, this was certainly not one of those occasions.
Apparently the two groups were some kind of rivals, because the moment the 2nd group got on there were lots of dirty looks flying back and forth followed by several nasty comments. Eventually things escalated because within seconds both sides had jumped up and began squaring off right there in the center of the car. Just as I was really starting to get into Dream Lover, I looked up and to my astonishment, everyone on the entire train was now holding weapons but me. I gasped “WTF?” There were knives drawn, bats out, and brass knuckles as far as the eye could see. One girl even whipped out this big humongous 12 inch black rubber dildo with long metal spikes around the head. Baffled, I thought “What the f*ck is she going to do with that?” “And certainly these sex-toy companies are not using real live models to cast these things. Because that is totally not even a realistic size.”
Suddenly from out of nowhere the ugliest one of the bunch threw the first punch. Following, the the entire train broke into pandemonium. Meanwhile here I am, this little 5’6 Black guy dressed in Justin Beiber wear, trapped in the middle of a big pack of lesbian gang bitches out for blood. I thought “Dammit Brett..how in the world did you end up here?” I had never in my life seen women fight so rough: truthfully, men either. I saw chin checks; body blows; and bitches hitting bitches with bats. It was like watching The Clash of the Lesbians in 3D.
It was pretty clear that the first group were no match for the second, so as soon as the train reached Hoyt Street they decided to make a run for it. The other group took off right after them. Completely floored over what I just witnessed, I couldn’t help but wonder “Okay, did I just accidentally stumble on some kind of secret underworld war zone?” Hell, who knows? Maybe big groups of lesbians have always fought each other to the death late at night on the trains when no one else was around? Stranger things have happened. Since Hoyt was my stop as well, I got off too. Chuckling to myself over what I just experienced I pulled out my phone to send off a quick tweet. But just as I was pressing send, I heard a voice yell out “There goes another one! Get her little ass!!!”
My first thought was ” Oh snap! They obviously found some poor straggler. That bitch is gonna get it now!” Then naturally I got my phone ready to record it all for Youtube. However when I looked up, I realized that for some reason the 2nd group of lesbians were all running in my direction. Within seconds they had all surrounded me execution style. That’s when I thought “They obviously must think I saw which way she went.” However before I could tell them I didn’t know, to my surprise the leader stepped in front and yelled “We got yo ass now bitch!”
It suddenly hit me; that for some reason these girls must have confused me for one of the lesbians. Laughing at the obvious hilarity of the situation, I calmly explained that they had made a really funny mistake and that I actually wasn’t a lesbian at all. Assuming then we would all have a big laugh over it all. However instead of laughing, the leader responded with “Bitch please! You expect us to believe that?” Somewhat nervous at this point, and a little ticked off at the insinuation, I exclaimed again “No serious guys, I’m really not a lesbian.”; convinced it would end the whole thing. But instead, she replied back with a sinister chuckle “Uh…Booh, you obviously ain’t the butchest one in yo’ crew. But trust me, we all know a tired ass dike when we see one.” She then yelled “F*ck this pretty bitch up!!”
I couldn’t believe what was happening. This was the 2nd damn time this year someone had confused me for a lesbian. I had to think fast. So petrified for my life, I quickly socked the smallest one in the eye and took off running just as fast as my little skinny jeans would allow. Now cut to me, running for my life late at night through Brooklyn with a pack of angry lesbians hot on my ass. I had certainly seen better days. As I ran I could hear a few of them yelling out “Catch that pretty bitch! Let’s f*ck her face up!” Then as luck would have it, I did that idiotic thing that every single white women does in a horror film. I tripped over one of my espadrilles and fell on the ground. Within seconds they were all hovered over me kicking, punching, and hitting me with sticks. As I tried to fight them off from the fetal position, I couldn’t help but think “Wow..lesbians sure are heavy handed.”
Next, several girls pinned my arms and legs down so that I couldn’t get up. I thought “Oh no..this can’t be good.” The leader then stepped up again and shouted “It’s time to punish this bitch! Break out Big Brutus!!” And that’s when my most absolute worst nightmare came to life. One of the girls pulled out the big black spiked dildo from earlier, while two others unbuttoned my pants. I gasped “Oh God no!!!.” Now at this point, you would’ve swore that Liam Neeson had just yelled “Release the Kraken”, because looking up all I could see was this gigantic black rubber monstrosity whipping back and forth in the wind. I could even hear the sound it made as it cut the wind. In a state of sheer panic, I called out “Jesus please be with me!” right before passing out cold. I guess my brain had seen more than enough episodes of OZ to know I probably wouldn’t want to be conscious for what was coming next.
Suddenly in the midst of me being unconscious, I heard a voice say “Oh shit! I guess he really isn’t a lesbian.” As I lie there in the middle of the sidewalk with my draws still down to my ankles, it’s funny because I distinctly remember the feeling of being judged, and even hearing a few of the lesbians snickering at the size of my penis as they walked off. When I came to moments later I was beyond furious as I gathered my self. It’s one thing to confuse a man for a lesbian, but it’s something all together different to poke fun at the size of his penis. Besides, it’s a scientific fact that there’s at least 4 inches of shrinkage whenever the body detects fear. As I walked back home with one of my ripped espadrilles in my hand, I couldn’t help but think “God damn dikes! What the hell do they know about penises anyway?” And the message of this story is; if your ever out partying late at night in the city and you need to get back to Brooklyn. For God’s sake take a cab.
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