Not to be confused with the “covert third-floor shitter” because, well, that’s me. (I don’t like the bathrooms on my floor at work because they are old and stinky and always broken, so I go up two floors any time I need to drop a deuce. It’s clean in there and smells like bleach)
The tale of the shady shitter is one that, at first, I would not share.
Until the shit became a stain that was never taken care of.
Then, I began regaling people with details.
The following began as an email to my future brother-in-law, and it’s been posted on blog version 1.0, and that silly little site called myspace.
Oh. My. Gah.
It was horrible.
There was this really guido-like dude, Bryan, that liked my friend Jenny. Jenny and I shared a bedroom in an apartment with two other girls.
One night, Bryan was over at the apartment drinking…
Wait. Did I mention that he was like 32 and had three kids whom he lived eight states away from and never saw? And we were all about 20? Yeah.
Anyway, Bryan was over at the apartment drinking in the living room. The room Jenny and I shared was right off the living room, and a little further down that hall was the shared bathroom.
I was using the master bathroom since the shared bathroom was already being used by two people and the girl in the master bathroom was just an idiot so I insisted on it being fair, basically to get on her self-righteous, holier-than-thou nerves.
Anywho, I was in the master bath washing my face, etc, before bedtime. I was meeting some friends in Myrtle Beach the next day.
I come out of the bathroom and Jenny stops me in the living room. I look past her to see Bryan hovering around the floor and Jenny sat me down on the couch.
This exchange took place-
Jenny: “don’t go back there right now. Bryan had an accident.”
Me: “oh, crap, did he puke?”
Jenny: “noooo. He didn’t puke.”
Me: “whoa, he didn’t pee did he?!?!”
Jenny: “no, it’s crap.”
Me: “what?!?! WHAT?!?!”
Jenny: “he has stomach problems and he couldn’t make it to the bathroom.”
About that time, Jenny and I decided to head to the shared bathroom where we chatted with our roommate.
We were incredulous. We were dumbfounded. We were grossed out.
Apparently, Bryan had liquid shit THROUGH his basketball shorts because he couldn’t make it to the bathroom that was FIVE FEET AWAY.
Later I would deduce, because of shit patterns, that Bryan had not only shit, but had begun shitting and run around, unsure of what to do, since there were splatters in different areas of MY BEDROOM and doorway.
While my roommates and I were in the bathroom talking, Bryan knocked on the door. I couldn’t believe it. “Hey, guys, can I come take a shower?” he said. We cleared out as fast as we could.
After Bryan got out of the shower, I assumed he’d check the soupy poopy area to make sure he had thoroughly cleaned it, and then he’d hightail it home, never to show his face again.
Bryan ended up SPENDING THE NIGHT IN THE APARTMENT HE JUST SHAT ON and acted like nothing was wrong.
The next morning, I woke up to bright yellow spots on my carpet. That’s right: his shit had changed the pH levels or something scientific in the carpet and altered its color.
Weeks and weeks went by, and Bryan never came to assess the damage and see if he could rid my floor of the stain. He began getting belligerent whenever someone would mention it.
“After all the shit I’ve done for her!” he said.
Right, Bryan. All over my floor.
p.s. he had actually never done ANYthing for me. He bought Jenny a washer and dryer and gave her a chair and couch WAY before I ever moved in.
And that, my friend, is the story of the shady shitter.