You shouldn’t talk on your phone in a public toilet - by a friend who does not want to be identified. You may understand why!
All in all, it hadn't been a good day. Bad traffic, a malfunctioning computer, incompetent staff and a sore back all made me a seething cauldron of rage. But more importantly for this story, it had been over four days since I'd last been to the toilet. I'd tried to speed up the process, beginning my day with a bowl of bowel clearing fibrous cereal, following it with six cups of coffee at work, and adding a bean type lunch. As I was returning home from work, my insides let me know with subtle rumbles and the emission of the occasional tiny sounds that Big Things would be happening soon. Alas, I had to stop at the supermarket to go shopping. I completed this and as I was walking past the other 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 sound that everything was indeed about to go. I hurried to the shopping centre toilets. I surveyed the five cubicles, which I have numbered 1 to 5 for your convenience:
2 Clean, but protocol forbids its use, as it's next to the occupied one.
3 Deposit on seat.
4 Deposit and toilet paper in bowl, unidentifiable liquid splattered on seat.
5 No toilet paper, no cubicle door, unidentifiable sticky object near base of toilet.
Clearly, it now had to be cubicle 2. I went back, entered, dropped my trousers and sat down. I'm normally fairly shameful. I wasn't happy about being next to the occupied cubicle, but Big Things were afoot.
I was just getting ready to let go 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 mobile phone conversation, the voice was extremely louder than it needed to be. Out of shameful habit, my sphincter slammed shut. The inane conversation went on and on. Mr next door was blathering on to his Mrs about the awful day he had experienced. 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 awful day, but I was too polite to yak on about it in public. My bowels let me know in no uncertain terms that if I didn't get going soon, my day would be getting even worse.
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 cubicle, 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 tone, not unlike someone firing up a motor bike. I managed to hit the resonance frequency of the cubicle walls, and they shook gently.
Once my bottom 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
3 the cubicle 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 cubicle and began choking next door. This initial "herald" fart had ended his conversation in mid-sentence.
"Oh my Lord," I heard him utter, following it with suppressed sounds of choking, and then, "No, honey, 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 toilet. 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 had actually managed to ricochet out of the bowl and run down part way down the side. But for now, all I could do was hang on for the ride.
Next door I could hear him fumbling with the toilet paper holder 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, dear..." followed by more sounds of suppressed gagging and retching.
Alas, it is evidently difficult to hold one's phone and wipe one's bottom 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 next door neighbour had dropped his phone into the toilet.
There was a lull in my production, and the room became deathly quiet. I could envision him standing there, wondering what to do. A final anal announcement came trumpeting from my bottom, 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 cubicle door was thrown open. I heard him running out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
After a considerable amount of paperwork, I got up and surveyed the damage. I felt bad for the cleaner who'd be forced to deal with this.
As I left, I glanced into the next door cubicle. 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 neighbour. I think it'll be a long time before he can bring himself to use a public toilet - and I doubt he'll ever again answer his mobile phone there.
And this, my friends, is why you should never talk on your phone in a public toilet.
That tops the story of the German sub-marine Captain who sank his U-Boat with a turd.
Loos in sub-marines are a bit technical and one is supposed to get a qualified shit-shifter to shift one's shit. The belief is that the Captain had laid such an impressive log that he was too embarrassed to do so and tried to operate the complex system of valves etc. that allow the contents of the loo out into the poor marine-environment. This resulted in the ingress of the ocean and the demise of the U-Boat. Woops!
I can appreciate the guy in the next cubicle's dilemma. I try to avoid public conveniences at all costs but on one occasion nature got the better of me and I found myself staring at the back of a cubicle door. On completing the final ritual by bending over the pan, I was greeted by a splash as my mobile phone left the confines of my shirt pocket and went swimming with the Thames trouts. I left the cubicle feeling as flushed as the phone I'd just sent to a watery grave.