Opps!

(from when I was a receptionist at Lennar Mare Island (2007-08):

Ok, so anyone who has been following my blog series recently or has known me intimately for any period of time may note that I have been plagued, not only recently but though most of my life by some fairly disgusting “incidents” involving bodily functions.

Here’s the latest:

Moments ago I felt the beginnings of a very satisfying flatulence bubble slithering its way down the greasy tubes of my lower intestine. Having already emanated a series of life affirming bugle calls from my rectum this morning, I looked forward the gentile (if somewhat odiferous) release of tension. As my sphincter widened ever so slightly to accommodate the birthing of this gassy butt baby, I realized only a moment too late that it had invited a friend. A small teaspoon sized portion of what is scientifically referred to as “Dookie”.

Tenaciously clutching my pimpled butt cheeks together, I calmly rose from my swiveling office chair. As I am the receptionist at my office, it is required to call our office manager and have her cover the phones in the event I need to, for example: run to the bathroom to stop a river of liquefied shit from sliding down my leg.

Just as I had picked up the receiver to dial her extension, one of the overpaid mongoloids who works in my office came frantically up to my desk with some weeping concern about a busy signal on the fax machine.

Sweat started to form on my brow. I clenched tighter and noticed to my chagrin that the steady tingle of a muscle cramp was forming in my tensed thigh. I politely reminded this man (who reportedly had a law degree) that if he were to simply press the number 9 before dialing the number his fax would be swimming across the telephone system to its corporate destination in no time.

That emergency deftly averted I redirected my attention to not being covered with my own feces for the rest of the afternoon. By some divine intervention my office manager picked up her phone the second ring. I croaked a request to “step out for a moment” and it was respectfully granted. Then came the final hurdle.

Making it to the toilet.

The first squirt of diarrhea (which was spreading its self to the very tips of the closed fissure in my hairy canyon, like warm mayonnaise on a sandwich) had acted as a scout for an invading hoard of liquefied bowel butter. This reeking army was battering at the gates and rapidly breaking down the defenses of the “O Ring Castle” with its relentless siege.

As I waddled like Charlie Chaplin towards the door I went over the details of the route to my salvation in my head:

- Office Door - ‘S’ turn in the hall way – then a sharp left followed directly by the men’s room door.

- Once inside there was a right turn at the mirror – stall selection (handicapped preferred) and then finally evacuation of the bowels.

I felt determined. I felt strong…I could do this.

Out the door the theme for “Chariots of Fire” started playing in my head. I moved in slow motion as I felt my face turn red with concentration. Mercifully there were no mishaps or encounters in the hallway, once inside the bathroom I noticed that it was deserted and the handicapped stall door stood slightly ajar, beckoning me to pollute it with my watery anal waste.

After that it was just a series of images, sounds and smells.

…close the latch…

…polyester slacks dropping effortlessly around my ankles…

…wiping residual urine from toilet seat with a fragment of 2-ply toilet tissue…

…fumbling with sanitary potty protector…

…ripping fragile tissue…

…crumpling it into a ball

…discarding in frustration…

…cold white plastic…

…sticky cheeks reluctantly separating…

…explosive sound followed closely by violent splashing in reaction to the high pressure caca hose….

…inevitable splash back…

…. audible groan of relief….

Woooooweee!

In the immortal words of Madonna:

“I made it through the wilderness, I really made it through…”

I should get workman’s comp for this.