“Do I even have the capacity to be shocked anymore?” a potty blogger thinks to himself.
Yesterday, I stumbled across a crime scene so hard to explain that it immediately slapped me back to the “ olden days” of this blog. When coworkers seemed to go out of their way to find new and creative ways to soil the porcelain.
It was first floor men’s room. (Yes, the one that no longer says “men” on the outside of the door but, rather, sports a cheeky set of painted “two low balls” to indicate “this one is for the fellas.”)
I headed to the penthouse stall for a quiet sit when I pushed back the door and saw it.
“Is that a large, wet caterpillar that has just pushed out of its cocoon and crawled up on the seat?” is how my brain first tried to make sense of what it saw.
But it was no caterpillar.
And this was no in-the-bowl remnant. This was an honest-to-goodness, proud-as-a-peacock, sitting-smack-dab-on-the-seat turd.
Many questions flooded forward.
Was it coworker’s silent protest? Or a cry for help?
Was it the rogue byproduct of an interviewee's nervous tummy?
And who, in god’s name, commits such a crime, stands, sees it and thinks, “Yeah, I’m just going to leave that there?”
Yes, I took a picture. (Mainly to confirm later that it was not some delirious fever dream, but that somebody actually left that baby on the shelf.) And the editorial staff here at 720-California-4th-floor-mens-room-dot-blogspot-dot-com debated long and hard about whether or not to include the photo along with this post.
But if we do that, the terrorist wins.
I don’t know who you are, first floor turd painter, but what you did was WRONG. This is not some art project and an office toilet seat is not a canvas for your fecal shenanigans.
Cut it out.