12/13/2005: "The Need for Speed"

I hate having to take a crap at work. Hate hate hate hate hate it. I hate it more than I hate any other work-related activity, including answering calls from the public. I hate it more than I hate stabbing myself in the eye with an X-acto knife. I truly, truly, hate it.

The thing about it I hate the most is sharing bathroom space with other people who are also crapping. There's something inhumanely wrong about having to be in the presence of someone else while engaging in such a private activity. What makes it even worse is that I work in a building apparently populated by people with hyperactive bowels--there are six floors in this building, each with its own set of bathrooms, and it's damn near impossible to go to any floor's bathroom at any given time of day and not open the door and be greeted with the triple-shotgun sound of three guys violently emptying the contents of their lower guts into the toilets, oftentimes with accompanying grunts and groans.

This morning, as I pondered e-mail and voice mail and the sleepy tiredness behind my eyes, there came a rumbling in my belly, and I knew I was going to have to brave the bathroom. I steeled myself and trekked to each one of the seven bathrooms in the building, hoping that I would find one unoccupied, and lo--the last one I tried was mercifully empty. I quickly parked myself in a stall and did the deed with as much alacrity as my bottom could muster, and my speed-shitting served me well, for even as I was washing my hands, three giant men filed into the bathroom, one behind the other, like a troupe of elephants, and made for the stalls. Their grunting started even before their stall doors had swung shut all the way, and I fled in terror.

I hate crapping at work.

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