It’s a cold, slow morning in the office. That one mousy chick is soapboxing, trying to make her making unreasonable demands seem ordinary. The diet-starts-on-Monday types are all patting themselves on the back fat for only eating one donut. And then there’s you, sitting there just Candy Crushin’ it while last night’s Chef Boyardee and malt liquor make the methodical, meditative passage through your large intestine before their departure. You know not to rush it. After all, pooping is an art as much as a science, and you never want art to seems contrived. In an hour you’ve felt the build up of post-food, inner-body filth at your pod bay door, and, knowing you don’t want to press your luck and risk having to take another “sick” day where you have to go buy new pants, you make your way down the hall to your favorite bathroom
As you survey the stalls, you notice your traditional, luxury-sized, handicap corner stall is occupied. You’ve always made your doody deposits in that stall and it’s a little frustrating when there’s plenty of other vacant stalls to see someone occupying it. It’s like being in an open relationship; you accept that the girl is seeing other people, but it’s still going to be awkward if you walk in on a guy dumping in her. Reluctantly, you go in another and drop your pants before you let go and let gravity. You miss the old stall, though. It’s like when your parents move out of your childhood home. Sure, the new house is functional, but it just doesn’t have the memories.
What you need is a deterrent. You need to give people a reason to take their stink elsewhere. Sometimes it can be as simple as giving your special porcelain girl a name. You tell your coworkers you’re off to drop a hot and steamy hard one in “Betsy” and, once they realize you’re talking about forcing out a rigid poo serpent and not about dipping your pen in the company ink, they might like the idea of naming shitters themselves. If you can get them to name their own, then boundaries will be unintentionally set and you can enjoy exclusivity with Betsy.
If personifying your rank receptacle doesn’t work there’s always the half-truth tactic. Commemorate apparent bouts of epic proportion and pungency with signs and awards for yourself displayed around the stall that say things like “Bless this Mess,” “Grittiest: 2012,” or “Welcome to Flavor Country.” Ideally, these will intimidate any intruder to never want to venture into the supposed big leagues ever again. If those signs do nothing to discourage people, just steal one or two from the janitor that read “Out of Order” or “Wet Floor: Seriously, Not Water This Time.”
If all else fails, just start leaving a random smattering of porn around the stall. Think about it: If your friends saw the weird scraps of smut, the gratuitous amounts of cocoa butter, or the crusty socks that accompany you on your living room couch every time you ride solo to pleasure town, well, they’d probably sit on the floor more when they came over or they’d start bringing a tarp. People hate to contemplate about how many people have j/o’ed before in their exact, current location. So give said stall trespassers no choice but to spend their two-to-thirty-minute excursion pondering if indeed their butt cheeks are touching the very same seat that the office masturbator’s touches when he touches himself.
Godspeed, poopers. Hopefully, in time and with hard work, you’re bathroom situation will be Costanza-esque.
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible most Thursdays and some Tuesdays. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible.com archive, and his updates here or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.