All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, malfunctioning computer systems, stupid members of the public and a sore elbow all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over forty-eight hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel-cleansing bran cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a thick and creamy soup for lunch. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny fart that big things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the supermarket to pick up a few things. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the trolleys on my way back to the car, I noticed a large sale sign proclaiming, "Everything Must Go!" This was prophetic, for my colon informed me with a sudden violent cramp and a wet, squeaky fart that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the supermarket bathroom. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 0 to 4 for your convenience:
1.Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
2.Poo on seat.
3.Poo and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.4.No
toilet paper, no stall door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.