All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent coworkers and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over 48 hours since I'd last taken a dump. I'd tried to jumpstart the process, beginning my day with a bowl of ass cleansing fiber cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean-laden lunch at Taco Bell. 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 mall to pick up an order for the wife. I completed this task, and as I was walking past the stores 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 mall bathrooms. I surveyed the five stalls, which I have numbered 1 through 5 for your convenience:

1. Occupied.

2. Clean, but Bathroom Protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.

3. Shit smeared on seat.

4. Shit and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.

5. No toilet paper, no stall door, something growing near base of toilet.

Clearly, it had to be Stall #2. I trudged back, entered, dropped the trousers and sat down. I'm normally a fairly Shameful Shitter. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied stall, but Big Things were afoot.

I was just getting ready to bear down when all of a sudden the sweet sounds of Beethoven came from next door, followed by a fumbling, and then the sound of a voice answering the ringing phone. As usual for a cell phone conversation, the voice was exactly 8 dB louder than it needed to be. Out of shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr. Shitter was blathering to Mrs. Shitter about the shitty day he had. I sat there, cramping and miserable, waiting for him to finish. As the loud conversation dragged on, I became angrier and angrier, thinking that I, too, had a crappy day, but I was too polite to yak about in public. My ass let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get crapping soon, my day would be getting even crappier.

Finally my anger reached a point that overcame Shamefulness. I no longer cared. I gripped the toilet paper holder with one hand, braced my other hand against the side of the stall, and pushed with all my might. I was rewarded with a fart of colossal magnitude -- a cross between the sound of someone ripping a very wet bed sheet in half and of plywood being torn off a wall.  The sound gradually transitioned into a heavily modulated low-RPM tone, not unlike someone firing up a Harley. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the stall, and it shook gently.

Once my ass cheeks stopped flapping in the breeze, three things became apparent:

(1) The next-door conversation had ceased; (2) my colon's continued seizing indicated that there was more to come; and (3) the bathroom was now beset by a horrible, eldritch stench.

It was as if a gateway to Hell had been opened. The foul miasma quickly made its way under the stall and began choking my poop-mate. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.

"Oh my God," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, baby, that wasn't me (cough, gag), you could hear that (gag)??"

Now there was no stopping me. I pushed for all I was worth. I could swear that in the resulting cacophony of rips, squirts, splashes, poots, and blasts, I was actually lifted slightly off the pot. The amount of stuff in me was incredible. It sprayed against the bowl with tremendous force. Later, in surveying the damage, I'd see that liquid poop had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down the side on to the floor. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.

Next door I could hear him fumbling with the paper dispenser as he desperately tried to finish his task. Little snatches of conversation made themselves heard over my anal symphony: "Gotta go... horrible... throw up...in my mouth... not... make it... tell the kids...love them... oh God..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.

Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bum at the same time. Just as my high-pressure abuse of the toilet was winding down, I heard a plop and splash from next door, followed by string of swear words and gags. My shit-mate had dropped his phone into the toilet.

There was a lull in my production, and the restroom became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my behind, small chunks plopping noisily into the water. That must have been the last straw. I heard a flush, a fumbling with the lock, and then the stall door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him.

After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the janitor who'd be forced to deal with this, but I knew that flushing was not an option. No toilet in the world could handle that unholy mess. Flushing would only lead to a floor flooded with filth.

As I left, I glanced into the next-door stall. Nothing remained in the bowl.  Had he flushed his phone, or had he plucked it out and left the bathroom with nasty unwashed hands? The world will never know.

I exited the bathroom, momentarily proud and shameless, looking around for a face glaring at me. But I saw no one. I suspect that somehow my supernatural elimination has managed to transfer my shamefulness to my anonymous shit-mate. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to shit in public -- and I doubt he'll ever again answer his cell phone in a bathroom.  And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in the bathroom.

P.S. No this isn't me.  I don't think I could be so articulate about my bowel movements. hehe

Heaven & Hell

Beth and I are sitting by the front window drinking coffee and kibitzing. It’s early and we’re not expecting customers for an hour. Side work finished, the tables are arranged with military precision; uniformed in starchy crisp tablecloths and brocaded with newly polished silverware, they stand at attention, ready for combat.

I take a sip of my coffee and sigh. The Bistro’s humming with potentiality. Like it knows being empty is an unnatural state, it waits for the inevitable onslaught.

“So did you hear how that lady’s doing?” Beth asks me.

“The woman from last night?” I reply.

“Yeah.”

“I called the hospital but they wouldn’t tell me.”

“What a shame. That poor lady,” Beth says.

“Yeah, it was terrible,” I murmur.

Last night one of our customers in the back section, an elderly woman, suffered a stroke. After projectile vomiting all over her table she slumped unconscious in her chair. I thought she was going to die there and then.

“Well, the paramedics got here fast.” Beth says.

“Thank God.” I reply.

“You know what though?”

“What?”

“I’m still pissed at those assholes.”

“The four top?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Beth says, “Can you believe how insensitive they were?”

“I believe it,” I reply……

It’s the night before and the restaurant’s crammed with emergency personnel. A foursome walks in and demands to sit the back section. I tell them we’re having a medical crisis and the section’s closed. They don’t care and start arguing with me.

“You’re gonna sit us in the back right?” one of men says. “You’re gonna sit us in the back like we want right?”

“Do you see the paramedics working over there?” I say incredulously.

“Well, we want that table when it clears out,” the man huffs.

I point to an empty table near the door. “I have that table available,” I say.

“Unacceptable,” the man says.

I look towards the back. The paramedics are busy stabilizing the woman. The entire Bistro’s ground to a halt. I don’t have time for this shit.

“Listen sir,” I say, putting steel in my voice, “You can either sit at what I have available or dine with us another night.”

The man looks flabbergasted.

“But……” he stutters.

“I’m sorry sir, but that’s the way it has to be.”

“I don’t want….”

“I need to keep this door clear,” I order, “You need to sit down now.”

The self involved foursome finally sits down. The medics bundle the woman into a stretcher and tear out the front door. The cops and I talk outside as the lady’s loaded into the rig, looking like a frightened wounded bird. With a blast of sirens, the ambulance streaks off into the night. I head back inside. The bus people clean up the mess, the waiters run out the food, and I go around thanking everyone for their patience. The bitchy foursome glares at me but I don’t care. It’s all over……

“I can’t believe how shitty those people were.” Beth says. “It’s almost criminal.”

“Hell is other people,” I say quietly, quoting Jean Paul Sartre

“You ain’t kidding,” Beth replies.

“I wish I was.”

Beth and I are quiet. We sip our coffee and watch the world go by. Outside people bustle along, faces set to grim purpose, running around like so many rats in a cage. I think about that four top and how cold hearted people can be. And not for the first time I remember that indifference to the suffering of others is the ingenuity of evil. When you don’t care, man’s inhumanity to man becomes that much easier.

After awhile the door chimes. Two parents and their daughter walk in. My face brightens. I remember the father is a good tipper. After I seat them and bring their cocktails they order expensive entrees and a $200 bottle of wine. It’s my lucky day.

The table polishes off their appetizers and tucks into dinner. In the middle of their entrées the little girl waves me over.

“Yes Miss?” I ask.

“Who’s that?” she says fearfully, pointing towards the window.

I look over. Claude, our local homeless guy, is outside looking in. I wave to him. He waves back.

“That’s just Claude,” I reply, “He’s harmless.”

“See dear,” the mother says reassuringly,” I told you it was OK.”

“Why is he out there?” the girl asks.

“He’s always out there,” I say.

“Is he a bum?” she asks.

“Claude is homeless Miss.”

“Homeless?”

“Yes.”

“Where does he sleep?”

“I don’t know,” I reply.

“Why doesn’t he have a home?” the girl asks.

“That’s a good question young lady,” I reply, “And the answer is very complicated.”

“Does he ever ask you guys for food?” the mother asks me.

“On occasion,” I reply.

The little girl looks at her father. He looks at her. Something passes between them.

“Listen,” the father says, looking uncomfortable, “Give Claude dinner on me.”

“That’s very nice of you sir,” I say, mildly surprised.

The father gazes at his rack of lamb. “It’s the least I can do,” he mumbles.

“Do you know what he likes to eat?” the girl asks.

“I know what Claude likes Miss,” I reply, “Don’t worry.”

I go in the back and order up some food for Claude. When the food’s ready I wrap it up and go outside to give it to him.

“Hey Claude,” I say, “One of the customers bought you dinner.”

“Oh boy,” he says.

“Your favorite dish,” I say holding out the bag.

“Mmmmmm.”

I watch as Claude peers into the bag. He looks very happy.

“I’m set for life,” he says, grinning.

I smile at the irony of his statement. “Enjoy, Claude.”

Claude starts to walk away. Then he stops and turns around.

“Thank those people for me,” he asks, staring at a spot on the sidewalk.

“I will Claude.”

Claude walks away holding the bag to his chest. I go back inside.

“The gentleman says thank you for dinner,” I tell the father.

“No problem,” he says sheepishly.

“Enjoy your dinner sir,” I say.

I walk back to the hostess stand. Suddenly I remember the woman who suffered the stroke the night before. I remember how frail and vulnerable she looked. I remember how cold those selfish customers were. I remember what Sartre said about hell being other people.

But then I look out the window and see Claude sitting on a bench eating his dinner. He’s having a hot meal because something in a little girl’s eyes moved a father to feed a hungry stranger. I stand there and try to figure out what that something was.

But then I give up. I don’t need to know. I content myself with the knowledge that love is ingenious.

And Sartre? He was only half right.

Heaven can be other people too.

www.waiterrant.net

I just got a call from my brother telling me that his wife's water broke and they're in the hospital right now.  I pray that everything goes well without a hitch.

Considering my birthday is tomorrow, it'd be kinda funny if my nephew/niece ends up with the same birthday.  *pause* Becoming an uncle...how surreal!

*EDIT*  I'm now the proud uncle of an 8 lb. 10oz. nephew!

**EDIT2** His name is Ryan and yes he's huge! lol  Unfortunately, we missed having the same birthday by about 2 hours.

Arnold after "Tookie" Williams' execution.

I'm a personal believer in the notion of an eye for an eye.  Writing childrens' books doesn't erase the murder of 4 people.

Posting this trailer for Aeon Flux makes me eligible for free Xanga Premium for life...

How can I resist Lifetime Premium? LOL

Are we on our way of growing old together?

Happy Birthday Sunshine!

I don't normally do weekend updates, but something big happened.  Click here <---to see details...

 Pre-Owned Certified Used P***y

I was reading the tabloid/celebrity section of the newspaper the other day about how Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are having differences already in their relationship.  Brad Pitt apparently wants something more serious while Angelina Jolie is content with her casual and at times promiscuous sex life.  This got me thinking...Guys, would you be happy being with someone super hot even if she had been with a bunch of guys before you?

Presumably, the more attractive a female is, the more she's going to get hit on, and the more she's going to hook up with other guys.  That probably means her shit is beat.  Take a look at porn stars.  Some of them are admittedly hot, but they've had more turns than a door knob.  So what does this mean? 

Go for the not so attractive girls.  The smaller the chance of them having hooked up means the smaller their *cough*.  Think of it this way...would you rather have a brand new Honda or a used Mercedes with 200k miles on it that's been driven everywhere? 

...oh who am I kidding?  Guys are shallow bastards.  A girl could be as wide as the Grand Canyon and guys would still do a swan dive right in as long as she looked good.  Now go out and get yourselves some "roastbeef" sandwiches!  haha

Have you ever farted and then had to run out of the room because you couldn't bear the smell?  What about taking a shit?  Maybe it's just me, but the smell of my own fart/shit doesn't bother me a bit but the same smell from others makes me gag. 

I just went to the bathroom and as soon as I walked in, I was greeted by the sound of butt trumpets and a stench that could strip the paint off a car.  I literally had to hold my breath while pissing and couldn't wait to get out of there.  I can't help but think of that scene in the Shawshank Redemption when Andy (Tim Robbins) crawled through that sewer pipe when he's escaping, puking every couple of steps.  Can you imagine what he must have experienced?

I try to reinact the scene whenever Choiiiiii is riding in my car and I'm driving.  I'd have the windows up and just let loose with my personal air freshener without saying a word.  When the aroma finally hits him, his reaction is priceless.  It's even better when you have a car with windows you can lock from the driver's side.  Just crank up the heater and watch the hilarity ensue.    

 Complacency

Would you say you're making progress in this thing we call life?  Whether it be in our personal relationships or our jobs/careers,  you're either active or passive.  I have to admit that for some time now, I've been the latter.  I don't think I've been a good friend, a good boyfriend, a good student or employee.  People have told me how much potential they see in me, yet I wonder if that potential is long lost and gone now or if it even existed in the first place.  Another day, another week, another year...nothing's changed in my life besides my age. 

I read and hear about other people's lives on Xanga and in real life, about their new job situations, relationship joys and heartaches, trips to foreign places, or fun activities they participated in over the weekend.  My life in constrast seems dull and boring.  You may say, "well why don't you get up off your ass and do what everyone else is doing then?"  Hmm, I wish it were that easy.

For as long as I can remember, I've been limited by my circumstances.  I can't go on trips or vacations because of my job/school.  I can't live out on my own because I'm tied down financially to my family.  I can't get married or have a family of my own because I simply can't afford to.  With that being said, you may still think, "so what? you can still do something about it"  Perhaps, but honestly? I'm broken and I'm tired.  There was a time when I would do whatever I could to accomplish a goal I set out.  Sadly, that little fire that used to motivate me hasn't been lit in a long time. 

If effort constantly led to nothing, how long do you think that effort would last?

I've become complacent with life but haven't totally given up on it yet.  As much as I want to just scream at the top of my lungs, instead I sit in a solitary haze, quietly holding onto hope.  Hope that MY time will come...

For those that are still sticking around in my life, I just want to say thanks.