No way, Wolverine - it just gets funnier, I would have to think. All the engineers at my last workplace would get together regularly and discuss the bathroom events at the office, especially our boss (lots of good impersonations - "oohhhh! oooo! ouuuuch!") and we even had names for the types of bowel movements that would occur after eating lunch at certain establishments. For example, the "Rudy's Flash Diarrhea" (after eating at our favorite dive 'Rudolpho's'), "The Pizza Hut Push", "Mom's Round Three" (after eating at 'Mom's Round Two'), "The Bobby Crap-illac's" (after eating at 'Bobby Cadillac's'), "Dan's Daily Diarrhea" (after eating a restaurant named 'Coffee Care' owned by our friend 'Dan'), and but of course, the "Curry Slurry" after eating at 'A Taste of India'. There were others, but I'm starting to forget them.
Roadwreck - I think I got myself in trouble giggling so maniacally at work, reading your story.
But since we're on poop stories, I am tempted to share one of my own:
I lived in a house with 4 other guys during my last semester of college. It was my second senior year, and I only needed maybe three classes to graduate. I remember that these classes consisted of metallurgy (easy), the geography of natural hazards (I'll never move to Missouri), and Art History (there were actually people failing that class. WTF??). So, needless to say, my afternoons were open.
We had an afternoon routine in this house, where myself and the one other roomate who happened to be in engineering, with the same easy 5th year schedule as me, would park ourselves on the couch in the living room and play Intellivision, drink Huber beer ($8.50 a case if you returned the bottles from your previous case), and listen to the Butthole Surfers (Hairway to Steven). It was pretty easy-going.
The living room in this house was situated right between the kitchen and the hallway leading to the bedrooms. There was a bathroom just off the hallway. We had a problem with that toilet, the typical problem where if you don't rattle the handle after you've flushed, the water just keeps running, and the tank never fills. So of course, none of us ever remembered to rattle the handle, and so it was not uncommon to find "unfinished business" floating in the bowl when it was your turn.
My engineering roommate had this skinny, almost mangy Siberian Husky named "She-nook" that must have been part wolf or coyote or something, because even though it was friendly as hell, it was untrainable and almost completely out of control. It was the kind of dog that would knock down visitors to the house in order to lick them on the face, and no amount of "NO!!!!" would stop her.
So one typical afternoon, about 4 or 5 beers into an extended match of "Auto Racing," my roommate jumps up from the couch and says "holy ****! I can't keep this one in!" and then returns a few minutes later, and nonchalantly mentions that the toilet didn't flush, so I shouldn't go in there until he can return and finish flushing the monstrous log he left (and those were his exact words).
A few beers later our doorbell rings, and it's these two girls we had met in "art history" who had decided to take us up on our offer for "tutoring". We both get up from the couch, bring them a beer, and stand around near the doorway chatting. Out of the corner of my eye, I see She-nook run through from the kitchen, heading for the bedroom hallway. I think nothing of it, other than relief that she isn't heading for the girls. The conversation continues.
About 30 seconds later, it's like a ligthbulb goes off over my roommate's head, and he whirls around and runs into the hallway. By this time, I've completely forgotten about the turd. I look back at the girls, shrug my shoulders, and try to continue the conversation. But the sounds of a struggle interrupt us - grunting, a jingling dog collar, splashing, toenails on linoleum - and I suddenly realize, with great horror, what must be happening.
Thinking quickly, I say to the girls "Uh oh, we'd better head out the front door, that dog can be kind of rough." But no sooner as I've said this, my roomate suddenly appears, dragging the dog by her tail through the hallway and into the kitchen. And he's gagging involuntarily. As I'm turning my head, I can see the end of something brown and irregular in her teeth. Oh, sweet mother of Christ!
I turn back to the girls, who are also looking, but more puzzled, and hurry them out the door. In the process, I catch one last glimpse of She-nook, just before her head is dragged out of sight behind the kitchen wall, and right as she makes that doggy "move" to swing her meal around in mid-air for swallowing.
Whew! The girls obviously didn't catch what was going on. I think I explained it away to the effect of "I think the dog got into my roommate's chocolate bars."
For my roommate's part, he later told me that the dog was sniffing and sort of nudging the log around in the bowl when he first ran in, but his sudden appearance apparently triggered some sort of food-survival instinct, and she just gobbled it up as he was dragging her out.
He managed to get her out of the house and into the backyard without too much more trouble. The girls stayed to finish their beers, but to be honest, that was the last time we saw them.
I wonder why?
