Feeling Flushed

Posted: August 27, 2010 in poop

Little brown canoes.

Let me explain.

I was over at Spazoid’s blog a while back, checking stuff out.

When I say “checking stuff out” I mean “not working” and “crushing my employer’s Return on Investment” in regards to their hiring of me.

Stock Market crash?

My fault.

The Great Depression?


Subprime Mortgage Crisis?


Jessica Alba’s pregnancy?

I wish.

Regardless, at the time Spaz was writing about “Laws of the Bathroom .”

Now, back in the day (my very first week here at Mental Poo), I wrote my OWN bathroom law:

Thou shalt not hold a conversation in the men’s room.

Spaz DID include that law as well but he neglected one very important bathroom law…

…of which I’ll expand here using one of my very own recent experiences.

I hate having bathroom ‘experiences.’

I’m going to start wearing Depends Undergarments so this doesn’t happen any more.

Coworker: “Hey…what’s that smell?”


Someone sent me a funny Will Ferrell video on YouTube and I didn’t want to get up.

Depends Undergarments ROCK.

Regarding my rule, here goes:

If you see a clogged toilet brimming with poo-stew, DON’T TRY TO FLUSH IT.

Jesus. H. Christ.

I had this lovely experience last week when I myself had to squash out a yule log.

My entry into the first bathroom stall was apparently shortly after an elephant had gone in there with a new, improved, colon cleansing formula.

Me (opening stall): GOOD GOD!! WTF?! Who did this … the Hulk?!?



It spoke and had it’s own intelligence.

Me: “Sorry.

(I move to the next stall)

As I’m sitting there making dookie, in walks a pair of loafers.

He casually strides into the clog-stall.


Sadly, I know in my heart what’s going to happen next.

However, because of the “no talk” rule in the men’s room … I’m not allowed to try to stop him.


Oh. No.

What happened next, I do not wish on my worst enemy.

Except Rachael Ray.

I hope this happens to her A LOT.

I hear the inevitable flush.


Of course, the giant animated shit refuses to flush…

…and immediately starts overflowing INTO MY STALL.


For the next 15 seconds, I frantically try to expel the remaining dookie as fast as possible AND wipe said dookie before the overflowing poo water and little brown canoes reach my shoes.

Side story:

I used to work for a civil engineering firm a while back.

One of the engineers there overflowed the toilet, and came running frantically into the boss’ office.


There is a pause as my boss looks up at him.

Calmly, he looks at Scott and replies:

Boss: “Are there little brown canoes?”


Back to me…squishing and wiping as fast as my little anus and tiny hands could go.

It was like Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Ark

… except instead of being chased by a giant rolling boulder, it was a flood of turds.

I’d like to see Indy get out of this one.

The moral of the story:


Abide by the rules.

Live by the Rules.

And if you see my feet in the stall next to the clogged one, DON’T FLUSH THE FUCKING THING.

The odds of seeing me though are slim to none these days.

Depends Undergarments.

The bathroom of the future.


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