Like so many others, I prefer to defecate in private. I consider the moments I spend on the hopper to be golden. It’s my special time; a time when I can quietly, or perhaps not so quietly, review the day’s events and reflect on a life well lived. So when I felt that very natural urge coming on this morning, I proceeded to building 6, the only building on our campus with a private bathroom and with a gleeful countenance I began my daily ritual.
Tragically this morning an unfortunate chain of events conspired to bring shame and disgrace down upon me like a freak meteorite that crashes through your roof and destroys your new 42” plasma TV.
You see, unbeknownst to me repairs had recently been made to the lock on the door of my restroom of choice, and sadly our contracted maintenance crews have been somewhat lax of late owing to a dispute with the company over reduced benefits. Thus, on this particular day the lock was not as functional as one might desire. In addition, a conference was just ending in the trade auditorium down the hall, where the topic at hand had been corporately funded daycare. Being blissfully unaware of these facts, I was just beginning to enjoy a good crap when with a great deal of shock and dismay I noticed a girl of about 3 years of age standing there, staring at me, a mere eight feet away in the now open portal to my inner sanctum. The puckering action so common to stressful situations, acted as a flow cut-off, resulting in a premature turd dropage followed by a loud plop. The girl seemed to find the situation quite amusing and began to laugh. Panicked beyond the capacity for rational thought, I began to make my way awkwardly to the door in a half crouch with high hopes that I could shoo her out and then shield myself from further embarrassment. Lamentably, just as I was about half way across the floor, the little girl’s mother entered the scene. I hoped, nay expected, that she would quickly apologize for her daughter’s intrusion and remove herself and the tike, whereupon I could somehow try and regain my composure. Instead, the woman stood momentarily transfixed, all the while co-workers, some of whom I know, had begun passing along in the hallway outside. In what I now recognize was a lapse in good judgment, I shouted at the two of them, “GET THE FUCK OUT!” They immediately did.
In the last two hours I have been interviewed by my manager as well as a representative from our HR department. I have been reprimanded for using inappropriate language, but am otherwise unscathed in regards to my personnel record. However, I must now live with the laughter and ridicule that is my inevitable fate.
As one last injustice, I have been asked to send a letter of apology to the “victims” of this calamity. I doubt they read CL, but in case they do I would like them to know that despite my tarnished reputation and my now certain professional downfall, I harbor no ill will towards either one of them. I humbly apologize for my outburst and can only hope they understand that it was the result of a terror-stricken state of mind.