Good Stories Lead to Good Band Names

I think it was Juliana who said to me, "You always have the best poop stories." She was right; my poop stories are generally thoughtful, visual, and filled with random details that other poop storytellers might leave out. Not me. I spin my poop stories like an old woman spins yarn in a fairytale: forever, and for no reason. But the poop story I am about to tell you has a twist this time, and the name of that twist is The Esquire.

Snotty begins:

We were at U-Village, shopping for a gift, when I suddenly needed to use the little girls' room. Normally I stay away from public restrooms, but the U-Village pit stops had already been vetted by Yours Truly nine months earlier; we left the candy shoppe and headed toward the bathroom next to Pallino's.

I handed the Esq my bags, because I thought he was going to wait in the hallway, but he decided he needed to go, so we split the bags up. I walked into the Ladies' room and saw that my preferred stall was taken (the handicrapper--what, I always use that one... it's not like I physically PUSH a wheelchair-bound person out of my way to use it) and that the stall was littered with shopping bags and a giant green purse riddled with large gold grommets. I entered my stall, sat down, and then... nothing. Not a drop. Total silence. I realized I was holding my breath, and I wondered why the bathroom was completely absent of sound. How I wish that silence had gone on forever.

Suddenly, out of the next stall comes the sound of someone dying; it was like that scene in Ghostbusters where the jerk releases all of the ghosts into the city, and the city goes batshit crazy--evil beings, tortured souls, and anthropomorphic marshmallow men unleashed their creepy agendas upon the people of New York, and a portal to the Other World was opened. The dying woman in the handicapped stall? Her asshole was that portal. It was that scene in Dumb and Dumber, only worse, because I was trapped there by my own performance-wary bladder. Trapped and holding onto my roll of toilet paper, trying not to cry from laughter and sympathy. Edging my shoes away from her stall, so she wouldn't see them and therefore be able to identify me around U-Village. As though that was her first concern.

If there was ever a scenario where monkeys might fly out of one's butt, this was it, this was the one. The poor woman must have had Habanero peppers, lutefisk, head cheese, steel wool, and anti-freeze for lunch; that's how bad it sounded. I finally willed myself to pee--through a stern pep talk and a little shaking (hey, guys do it!)--and thought, I should just leave and wash my hands somewhere else. This woman has enough to deal with right now, she doesn't need more of an audience. But my own germy phobia got the best of me, and so I washed my hands as quickly as possible. The sound of her ass-tastic performance followed me out the door and into the hallway; I was mortified, for her and for me.

I looked around for the Esq, who was standing in the corner, smirking; I thought he, too, had heard the unmistakable sound of her defeated a-hole, but he just shook his head and we went outside. As always, I started telling him my story on the sidewalk, and he just nodded and laughed; I was animated as ever, but it wasn't making much of a dent. That's when the Esq began his own bathroom tale of drama and woe.

The Esq continues our story:

I didn't actually use my bathroom, because there were people fucking in it. Of course I have an intellectual awareness that this goes on, but never had I witnessed it firsthand. And I've been in plenty of sketchy bathrooms -- believe you me. This was a quite public and well-maintained bathroom in a very busy shopping center, and seemingly an odd choice of venue.

Nonetheless, immediately upon entry I noted with some confusion that there were two pairs of shoes (facing the same direction) in the nearest stall, which was a-rockin'. It seemed odd not to use the aforementioned (much more spacious) handicrapper for such a purpose. I briefly considered if someone choking on the pot was in fact being rescued via Heimlich manuever, or if someone was just making an incredible commotion trying to change into another pair of shoes. Discarding all of these as supremely unlikely, I found myself too distracted to pee. I made a tight circle, said "Pardon me" to the little Mexican spectator lurking by the door, and beat a hasty retreat.

Snotty finishes:

Well, he wins. Obviously. I just love how there were two dudes a-rockin' in a stall not some ten feet from the children's play area, and that some little Mexican dude was standing in as a witness. How thoughtful of him. When the Esq repeated his tale to me, my shrieking "WHAT?!" was probably heard throughout the entire Village of U.

When I got home, I unloaded my purchases; in the bottom of one bag was the toilet paper roll I had been clutching in the bathroom stall. Somehow, in all of the diarrhea madness, I had managed to steal the roll; in my mad dash from bathroom to sink to hallway, I forgot to put the roll down, and instead chose to steal it as a papery reminder of how close I came to death that day. A souvenir, if you will.

Also, if I ever start a band, it's totally going to be called Defeated A-Hole.