Thursday, September 10, 2009

An Ode to Poo

A few days ago, I stopped into the bathroom at work to pee. The only station unoccupied was the back stall, so I stepped in and closed the door. Inside the toilet was a small mound of poo slightly smaller than a tennis ball hanging onto the side of the bowl. It was alone; there were no other remnants or remains of previous occupants, and, except for the presence of the poo, the bowl was sparkling clean. I quickly did my business and flushed. The poo hung on with amazing tenacity and remained after the rush of water had ceased and the bowl had refilled, leaving it peeking above the surface of the water like a fat little frog. As I washed my hands, I couldn't help but giggle like an eight-year-old. I exited the bathroom and went about my day. A bit later, I found myself in need of another pit stop and headed back to the bathroom. It was empty this time, but out of morbid curiosity I leaned into the back stall and peered into the bowl. The poo remained, still clinging to its spot as if it had been organically welded there. I finished my business and flushed, expecting the poo to release it grasp on the porcelain and float away. Instead, it clung fiercely to the bowl and never flinched. Impressed, I washed up and went back to my desk. The rest of the day came and went, and as I headed out to go home I had to stop in one last time just to see if it was still there. As I entered the stall, I could see that the poo was still hanging on, but it looked tired and haggard. I hesitated a moment, then flushed. The poo gave up its grip, tumbled around the bowl for a second, and was then quickly escorted away, leaving me alone in the silence of the bathroom. As I lay in bed that night, I shared the story with Mary and we giggled and snorted about the resilience of poo. I told her that, in light of that resilience, I felt the need to give the poo a name. Almost immediately, she offered a moniker that seemed proper and fitting. So I dedicate this post to you, Mr. McClingy.