Fecal Phantom World Record

I figured there was no way he would strike again. Not now. Not during the holiday season. Boy was I wrong. Not only did a fecal phantom strike again, but he struck with the kind of blind, swift vengeance normally reserved for a Texas courthouse. Sadly, what I am about to tell you has not been embellished in any fashion.

Today, at approximately 10:45 a.m. EST, I made my way to the lavatory in hopes of expelling some urine that had begun to stockpile itself in my bladder past the point of comfort. When I turned the corner to go to the men's room, I heard the door shut. As I entered the bathroom approximately 4 seconds later, the door on one of the stalls slammed shut before I could notice who had gone in. I looked at my watch before I sidled up to the urinal for what I assumed would be a routine piss. The second hand had just crossed the 9.

The expected noises and odors emanated from the stall. When I was zipping up, I heard the unmistakable sound of a toilet flushing. The handle being pounded down. The deafening rush of water carrying human excrement to its final resting place in the Great Miami River. It was all too real. The second hand of my watch stared at me like an angry homeless man. It had just crossed the 3. Thoughts of rational disbelief engulfed me as I made my way to the sink to wash my hands. "Maybe it was just a courtesy flush," I thought to myself, "Because there's no way. It's not possible. It just . . . can't . . . be." I'll never forget the terrifying sound I heard next: the rustling of pants being brought from ankles to waist as a shirt was being tucked in, complete with the jingle-jangle of a belt buckle being maneuvered into the closed position. The Cinnamon Life I had for breakfast was creeping up my esophagus and tears were beginning to well in my eyes. I quickly dried my hands and headed for the door. Before I could get out, I heard the stall door open.

The second hand was at 6 as I sprinted back to my office. I couldn't even bring myself to look at the culprit. The resulting combination of laughter, crying, uncontrollable vomiting, and merciless cock punching would have surely ended my employment with this firm. Until we meet again, Mr. Fecal Phantom. Perhaps then I will have summoned the courage to look you in the face -- assuming you have one -- and tell you what a deplorable, holiday-ruining shit monger you are.