Saturday, January 12, 2013
Shake Hands With Beef!
February 8, 2006
I really wanted to make a break from the trend of toilet humor in my second column…to let the WVSR readers know that I wasn’t a weirdo that was so totally focused on that particular brand of juvenilia. But over the weekend, I had an experience that must be shared. I had never thought these types of stories that you read on the Internet were true, until I had a unique encounter of my own…
So I was doing my pre-Super Bowl Saturday errands, and happened to stop by the Tom Thumb Flagship Grocery in Plano en route to the casa for a few items. Chips, dip, and the essential foodstuffs needed to fuel a Super Sunday. Starbucks was doing its’ job however, and I needed a place to do business, and here I was at this busy and trendy spot.
Now, unlike our fearless leader Jeff, I will take a dump somewhere just because. It’s surely some hyperretarded alpha male instinct, and probably just a matter of “marking turf.”
(Since the Steelers won the title, I will give up props to my buddy and former roommate, Doug H, the king of the random dump, for punching one out at the U Pitt dive bar “Chief’s” during a busy Friday night in the late 80s. A foot on the door for security, and I think he might have been hitting on a with it slightly ajarS. Totally shameless and beautiful all at once.)
But I digress.
I go into the facilities at said upscale grocery thinking I might add it to my “pelt.” I hit the men’s room with optimism, but was soon turned back violently. With extreme violence.
Rounding into the back stall of the Man’s room, it was one of those moments where all of your senses go into a revolt of disbelief, and you nearly fall over…not sure whether to furiously vomit aloud, or just squint and go ‘Nam style like it was just another day “in the shit.” Appearances indicated I had barely missed the Ex-Lax Chili Cookoff’s winner of the ”Cool Hand Luke” Boiled Egg Showdownthey must have had out in the parking lot just before I got there.
The word “horrific” has never been more applicable than it was when I witnessed in the contents of this stall…it was a most terrific brand of horror.Sweet Sainted Mother Of(-JK) Hoss Cartwright , Frank Cannon, and a flat of prune danishes!! There in the back stall, it looked like a mortar shell full of French onion soup had found paydirt at the right angle where the toilet joins the tile wall, and in finding said paydirt , had created a foul, foul brand of mud.
I whipped around and staggered out of the bathroom like an over-dramatic James Dean, blindly grasping for someone or something to offer support. When my senses finally came to, I was near the pharmacy desk, and felt that it was my civic duty as an American to report that a savage act of terrorism had been committed in the men’s bathroom.
Eventually , I was able to regain my composure and refocus on the errand at hand. However, as I navigated my cart about the store, instead of openly mocking all of the self-absorbed yuppies whimsically hogging an entire aisle with random stops and starts, I instead wondered how the government was going to deal with the carnage in the men’s bathroom. I hurried about the place with my shopping list before all lanes were closed, and a team of HAZMAT specialists secured the area.
But it never happened. Out of curiosity, I doubled back to the restrooms to see if this issue was being dealt with covertly, as not to alarm the public. As I closed in, what I saw instead of police tape and Men In Black, was a couple of teenage bagboys, strapped with facemasks, rubber gloves, and mops next to a janitor’s cart.
Those poor young bastards would be the first to see Dresden after the firebombing…it would be their own “Slaughterhouse Five” that they would have to deal with for the rest of their lives. God bless their souls.
So I wheeled my cart over their way and confessed that I WAS THE ONE that had reported this profane act to the proper authorities. Somehow, I was to blame for their impending gruesome task, but I needed their blessing before I could travel on. I had indirectly thrust this unenviable task upon them, but I was not Major Asscannon.
“This happened before.” Said the elder yet pimpled management oriented employee. “It looks like the same shit I had to clean up 2 weeks ago.” So there was a pattern developing here. Yes, once again the CSI Team would roll into the scene, put the pharmacy on lockdown, and David Caruso would survey the damage, also proclaiming that the “spray pattern” was similar to those he had encountered before. Now it was a job for the “Rectal Ballistic Team” to see if they could make a match…assholes are like guns, or snowflakes you know, they are all different. Can you “dust for shit,” or is that like a Spinal Tap drummer vomit scenario??
Whatever the case, I bid those unfortunate young fools godspeed, but not before we hypothesized what kind of menu a maniac like that could have ingested to give birth to such foulness (4 McD’s double cheeseburgers, a box of Raisin Bran, and a gallon of Green Apple Cider…for the record.) After that, I was on my way to the checkout line.
So, the rest of the weekend went as planned, but I was a bit shaken as a result of this trauma…sometimes I couldn’t stop imagining the various types of explosive diaharrea that douchebags around the nation would experience during Superbowl weekend, and the poor souls that would be forced to deal with the aftermath.
Just remember good people of the WVSR, that your “Superbowl Party” is another incontinent and inconsiderate man’s “Pooper Bowl Farty,” maybe even up against YOUR tile wall. Let the chips fall where they may.
Smitty Werbenmenjensen (aka- #1)