The Turd
Bicycle Thieves #15
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There were many reasons not to write this story. It is juvenile. A pre-adolescent obsession with bodily functions. The humour is crude. And there is no redeeming message. Nothing to make you feel that the tale is worth telling. Except that it happened. At my son’s place of work. A prestigious accounting firm.
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THE TURD
Paul rushed into the washroom. A dancing bladder. And in his haste to get to a urinal almost tripped over it. He looked down at the turd resting in the middle of the floor. For a brief moment he just stared. And he felt in that moment that it was staring back at him. Or was it corn? And then the reason for Paul’s entry into the washroom returned and he took his piss in the urinal. All the time he was relieving himself he did not take his eye off the turd. It had a quality about it that was disturbing. Was it alive? It reminded Paul of creatures that popped up in horror films. Creatures that were alien to this orb. And the turd did look alien. Who would take a shit in the middle of the floor? It was like someone planned the whole thing. Like they regularly created such huge creatures and wanted to put one on display. An anal Toulouse-Lautrec. Was it to be marveled at? Was everyone supposed to admire the mother of such a heinous creature? Was it supposed to shock? Successful on that account. One thing Paul knew. Someone in the store was a very disturbed person. Would there be a sequel? Could it be another employee? Paul tried to go through the list of his colleagues. He couldn’t imagine any of them being this perverse. Especially the women. Paul shook his head. It had to be a customer. Paul finished his work at the urinal and washed his hands. He watched the creature’s reflection in the mirror. Did it move? Moving sideways, his back to the wall, Paul reached the door and opened it.
A horrendous thought raced through his mind. As he departed from the washroom. Paul cried out loud enough for everyone in the store to hear him.
“It isn’t mine!”
haha
thats freaking hilariuos. I am copying a short story I wrote that has to do with poop too!
FRANKIE HAS NO TOILET PAPER:
Our neighborhood had its share of apartment buildings, large and small. There were also some town homes. I had two good friends that lived in one of these townhouses. They didn’t own them, they we were renters, remember we rented we did not own. My buddies, Johnny S and Frankie both lived in the same town home. The Johnny lived in the basement (another tale) and Frankie lived on the third floor. We used to hang out in these lawn chairs in the back yard, or I should say the rear of the building, all concrete courtyard. We’d hang there like you would hang out in a real backyard. Growing up in NYC had its way of beating you down sometimes, so if you had a back yard concrete or something else, you used it as much as you could.
Johnny and I were sitting back there one day drinking beer and wine. I looked over at one end of the “yard” and saw what looked like socks lying all around the ground. I asked Johnny, “What’s with the socks?” He say’s “not a clue man, I see more and more of them all the time, I don’t touch them, they look funky not sure what’s on them, they’re just there”. I walked over and did a quick drunk count must have been like a dozen, I stopped thinking about it and went back to drinking.
A few weeks later I was up in Frankie’s apartment drinking and went into the bathroom to take a shit, I’m done with my poop, give me a fucking break there’s no toilet paper, I’m like shit, come on. I yelled, “Frank, where’s the goddamn toilet paper? He yells back at me,” if there’s none in there, just do what I do”.
I thought about that for a moment and then I said, “What the hell do you do”.
He yells back and says, “I use my sock to wipe my ass, then I throw it out the window into the back yard”.
Funny story. Sounds like something from Chaucer.
Hi David,
Whos Chaucer?
sobnyc
http://www.luminarium.org/medlit/chaucer.htm