Posted by: robinsonwarner | October 13, 2009

The Sum of All Fears

You know the feeling.  Your hands get clammy and there’s a cold sweat on the back of your neck.  Denial creeps into your mind.  No, not now.  How could this be?  Yoou took every possible precaution.  People might suspect something if you act now.  You wring your hands together vigorously.  You’re on a hair trigger and there’s nothing you can do about it.  Before you know it, you’re out of your seat and sprinting down a long hallway.  Onlookers eye you strangely as you weave your way through the human traffic.  What’s the matter with you?   Well, you had to poop at the movies.

You’re not sure you’re going to make it and burst into the bathroom.  There’s a line.  Oh sweet holy razor blades, there’s a  line, but it’s a small one.  You have to go so badly that you’ve  accepted the possibility of crapping your pants.  All you can hope for is damage control.  Perhaps you can sew a pair of pants out of your socks?  Or, or or you could ask the stranger to run to JC Penney for you.  Maybe there will be a magic lamp in the stall that will be able to give you three wishes. 

Things are looking grim as you feel the final level of control raise its white flag.  Your body is fighting a losing battle against the elite cavalary of the Fecal Army.  Resistance is futile.  It is a matter of seconds now. 

But what is this?!  A stall at the end of the bathroom opens and the most beautiful person wearing a Star Trek t-shirt walks out of the stall.  You think it’s a bit unnecessary for this person to bring nachos into the stall but that’s not important right now.

You move as quickly as your condition permits.  You sit down and welcome sweet relief.  If Christmas, an orgasm and Oreos dipped in milk could be made into a feeling it would be this.  You didn’t… shit… your pants.  No humiliation.  No mess.  No psychological scarring.  Victorious fanfare might as well fill the bathroom and you offer an olive branch to your colon.  All is forgiven for the betrayal your body tried to perpetrate.

You open your eyes, elated.  Something is wrong though.  You first check for toilet paper as your hand darts to the dispenser.  Resources are low, but it will be enough to get the pilgrims through the winter.  What could it be?

My my my!  What a spacious stall you’re in.  No, you can’t believe it.  How coul the fates be so cruel?  You’re in a handicap stall.  Should you move?  Should you be concerned?  What are the odds that someone with a wheelchair would actually need to use the stall?  Do people in wheelchairs even need to poop?  Do you need to stop and pick up eggs at the grocery store on the way home?

You go through your routine maintenance, ignoring the type of stall you’re in. Would it kill businesses to use toilet paper that doesn’t have a 67% sandpaper quotient?  For an industry that requires people be sitting down and be comfortable, these companies would only improve their caste by going for some toilet paper with aloe, you think.  Baby wipes might also be nice.  Better pick up milk and eggs.

You’re about ready to move on from the trauma when you hear the door open.  Cold, unforgiving science is making a squeaking noise.  Hoping, you muse that someone should really get some WD-40 for that door. 

And then you see it:  wheels.  Those stainless steel, immaculate wheels used for Satan’s chariot.  Why me?  If you believed in God you would ask Her why such awkwardness should be bestowed on you?  You’re still sitting, at your weakest, hoping that the occupant of the wheelchair might just be washing their hands or blowing their nose. 

Please let the chair stop before it gets to your stall.  You would rather see the feet of a sodomizing mange infested yeti than the wheels of this wheelchair.  Alas, the chair movesdown the length of the bathroom.  You slowly pull your pants up, open the door and look into the face of your accuser.  Now they know, you were using their stall.  You expect to have limestone thrown in your eyes.  The person stares at you in the doorway of the stall, “Everything all right?” they ask.  You nod your head, drop your left hip six inches and slowly limp out of the bathroom.

She totally bought it.  Sucker.

Wait, she?  Not again.

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