The Wars of The Rose(bud)s

I drink a lot of water at work, so there are several trips a day to the restroom to take care of the consequences of drinking a lot of water. Rarely, the other urge will arise, and for that, I forsake the restroom on the same floor as my office, as that restroom has a lot of traffic coming in and out. For me, the #2 is a sacred time for personal thought and reflection, and while at home, reading. I have also been known to go into the restroom with a handheld gaming device, as it is mentally difficult to pass the time without being engaged in some sort of activity. It is akin to trying to run a marathon without any music playing in some headphones.

I shudder when I think about why the buttons are sticky.

Be it known that I do not often drop the deuce at work. I consider myself to be very regular and I take pride in the fact that I do it once in the morning and once at night. It is almost like clockwork. However, there are rare times where I will get the call in the middle of the day. Today was one of those days.

Dr. Who just ended. Time to get that out of my system.

As I mentioned before, I avoid the Times Square-like environment of the main floor restroom when I get the brown fever. For heavy projects like these, I seek the quiet solitude of the restroom on the second floor of my building. It is less-harshly lit, less frequented, and as a result, much cleaner than its downstairs counterpart. It is a place where a man can squat and really get some hard thinking done. As the urge hit me today, I looked forward to my appointment with poignant introspection. I settled down on my throne as king of the kingdom of taupe walls, beige tiles, and methane gas.

As I began, my phone began to vibrate. It was a call from my wife. I am not above answering a phone call on the john, so I answered. My wife was wondering if she could come by for a visit, as she was going to be in the area. I of course told her that it was not a good time, as I was otherwise engaged, and she understood. Before our conversation ended, however, the worst possible thing that could happen happened.

I heard the squeak of the door opening, than footsteps. While I am not above talking on the phone while pooping, I do not want strangers eavesdropping on my calls. The conversation with my wife ended with me quietly grunting in assent and whispering "I love you too." I quickly hung up, and placed my ceremonies on hold expecting this guy to quickly make use of the urinal and leave.

I was disappointed, however, when this gentleman walked into the stall next to mine and started making pumpernickel loaves right next to me! My reflection time was horribly violated by this johnny-come-lately. What could I do to salvage my experience that had been compromised by the unfortunate development?

I knew the solution right away. I earlier equated bowel movements to marathon running. If that is the case, than I am the skeletal Nigerian of poopers. I pull of miraculous sessions that can run in excess of an hour given proper preparation (books, magazines, Tetris, etc.). All I needed to do was outlast this joker and the kingdom would be mine again as it was before this usurper decided to come in and mess things up.

Unfortunately, this was not meant to be. I was sitting next to the Magnus Ver Magnusson of poopers. This guy was refusing to budge.

Somehow I related my bowel movements to Strongman Competitions. How does this always happen?

Having been defeated in the my fecal siege, I left the restroom an emotionally broken man. I quietly wiped and quickly washed my hands and left the restroom, taking care to leave before my opponent finished, for I was ashamed to see him face to face. I have lost all confidence in my abilities as a world class turd master. I tender my resignation immediately from the competitive pooping circuit, and I will turn toward violent purging to avoid pooping in the future.