February 3, 2013
If you have an aversion to poop horror stories, you should stop reading now.
Still reading? REALLY? I thought that everyone had an aversion to Poop Horror. But not you, huh? Man, you’re a real freak.
It was a lovely, happy, day, and I took The Boy to Chick-Fil-A to have lunch with some friends. The kids were playing in the play land, and we “adults” were stuffing our pie holes with waffle fries and talking about whatever the heck women in large groups talk about. I tend to space out, so I don’t remember.
About midway through my Diet Coke I had to go to the bathroom. Of course, like any public bathroom, it didn’t smell great in there, but I chalked it up to the fact that this is a kid-friendly restaurant and that changing table is probably on heavy rotation. The bathroom was empty and all 3 stalls were open, but since I am a greedy bish, I decided that I deserved the spaciousness and luxuriousness of the big stall. So I waltzed my little spoiled ass in there, and without surveying the area first, I closed the door behind me. After locking the door, I turned to walk towards the toilet, and that is the moment when I learned a lesson about the importance of conducting a proper survey before entering a stall. There is a reason that, for the last 6 years, I have totally Karate Kid Crane Kicked the door of every stall that I am considering peeing in.
ONE MUST ALWAYS KARATE KID CRANE KICK THE DOOR TO ANY AND ALL PUBLIC BATHROOM STALLS, AND SURVEY THE INTERIOR OF SAID STALLS, PRIOR TO PHYSICALLY ENTERING THE STALLS.
Kick and look, you guys.
It’s that easy.
Kick. And. Look.
All I can say is that I have no idea WTF went down in that stall.
I mean, it was definitely nothing that could be accomplished by anyone with 100% human DNA. Alien/Human hybrid, or Animal/Human hybrid? Maybe. Psychotic circus bear with an amazingly unhealthy hatred for all humanity, on the run after his animal train derailed, popping in to devour a party tray of chickin strips, a gallon of Lemonade, 3 gallons of coffee, topped off with a side of Ex-Lax? More likely. Someone or someTHING had taken a twosies everywhere in that stall. Well, everywhere except for the place you are supposed to take your twosies. On the floor to the left of the toilet? Check. On the floor to the right of the toilet? Check. In front of the toilet. Check. Behind the toilet? Check. On the back of the toilet? Check On the walls? I’m sorry you guys, but that’s also a check.
It was as if someone had been imprisoned in there and was marking off the days with a big poop marker.
I was frozen in fear for what seemed like hours.
When I snapped out of my shock, I turned to unlock the stall door and totally couldn’t remember how a lock worked. It was like one of those scary movies where someone’s being chased by a murderer and they can’t remember how to open a door to escape, or dial a phone for help. When you’re actually living a moment of sheer terror, these simple things become nearly impossible.
I was stressing out.
I tried to focus on the lock, but I couldn’t stop looking at the horrific crime scene to my right. I began to imagine the pieces of poop all rising up to form into one giant poop monster that would strangle me with its strong, murdery, poop hands. Then I started thinking, “Whoever, or whatever did all of this had to touch this door to get out of here!” Since my fingers had been all over that lock and door while I was desperately trying to escape the poop stall, that realization nearly killed me right then and there.
There’s not enough Purell in the world to make you feel clean after that.
Even a Silkwood shower is gonna leave you feeling like a dirty crap whore.
The only thing that kept me alive was the knowledge that I had a son out there in that play land who would eventually come looking for me.
If I died, I would die in a bathroom stall full of poop.
And unless a CSI team was called in to properly investigate this situation, the coroners would most likely think that I was the guilty pooper!
I did NOT wanna be the poopetrator!
I couldn’t leave that legacy for The Boy to bear.
“Hey, Boy! I heard your mom’s the one that died in that disgusting poop pile in the big stall at Chick-Fil-A!”
He’d never live that down.
And all because I felt like I deserved the stretch limo of bathroom stalls, when the mini pooper woulda done just fine.
My whole poop legacy might even keep him from getting into an Ivy League University. You might get straight A’s and be valedictorian of your class, but if you’re the spawn of a woman who dropped 20 pounds of brown horror all over the big stall at a Chick-Fil-A, then drew on the walls with it, then tossed it all over like she was playing a poop and potty version of horse shoes before finally dying in it, you’re kinda screwed. That’s just the kind of baggage that could not only keep you from getting into the college of your choice, but could also keep you from getting a good job, a good wife, and having any normal kind of future.
You’ve all seen what happened to Dexter Morgan after witnessing that whole mom in a shipping container fiasco. Dead mom in a bloody shipping container. Dead mom in a poopy big stall. Think about it.
And in case you’re wondering what the heck DID happen in that stall, I still have no idea. When I finally got out, I grabbed The Boy and told one of the employees that they needed to burn the whole building down. Then we hit the road for the sweet sweet comforts of home, and my own poopocalypse-free potty.
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