Black (and brown) Tuesday

Something very VERY bad happened in the third floor men’s room yesterday afternoon.

A co-worker came to me with tears in his eyes. Another emailed with the subject line “something died.” A third was so distraught, all he could do was shake his head and point.

Naturally, I had to investigate.

What I found made the Saw movies look like Mary Poppins. It was the bathroom version of torture porn. It made me yearn for the salad days of my E-level discovery.

Within the first two seconds, I realized that if I stayed in there longer than a minute, I was going to throw up.

How to describe the odor? Imagine a corpse, soaked in pickle juice. That corpse is then eaten by a dog who poops it out. That poop is eaten my another dog who then barfs it into a jar of rotten eggs. That jar is then sealed for a thousand years. At the end of that thousand years, the jar is heated up over a methane gas plume. The jar is then opened and the contents are spread on crackers made out of diseased goat pancreas.

It smelled a little like that...only turned up to 11.

Any sane person would have run screaming. But I had to look. I had to see for myself.

What I saw was so foul there is really no way to describe it in a family blog like this. Lets just say that the mystifying splatter pattern that has so thoroughly puzzled me in the past had migrated to the floor and wall. The bowl in the Peter Brady stall was overflowing with filth and, evidence suggested, the contents had made a run for it, hopped to the ground, run up the wall and into the penthouse stall where it proceeded to fill that bowl too.

If you are responsible for any aspect of what took place in third floor men’s room yesterday afternoon GET YOURSELF TO A HOSPITAL. I'm not trying to be funny and I'm not kidding. You are physically and emotionally broken. You need help.

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