The Plop Talker
I have no idea what goes on in woman’s washrooms. I really don’t, and I probably don’t want to know.
Or do I? I mean, women go into washrooms in groups. Why could they possibly need to go in groups unless…
This is what I believe women do in the washroom. Also, when women go into the washroom they all magically turn into thin, boobalicious lesbian vixens. That explains the abundance of fat ugly chicks; they’re in disguise! But whatever I THINK women do in a public bathroom, I know exactly what men do.
We men do our business, a #1 and/or a #2, wash our hands (hopefully) and leave. What we don’t do?
Talk.
Talking is forbidden. Just like not leaving an empty urinal spacer between two men draining the trouser snake. Of course, not every man understands that. There are a few men that break the man code, a few very sad little unpopular asshats that nobody likes. These men are bathroom talkers.
One such bathroom talker is a particularly BAD bathroom talker. He has an uncanny ability to be in the washroom when you walk in, and can sniff out exactly who it is from underneath the stall. He then proceeds to have a conversation with you from inside the stall, and the worst part?
You can’t leave. You can’t leave, because he’s the BIG BOSS.
But not having the normal man bathroom etiquette wasn’t the worst part. The abysmal rotting disgusting smells coming out of the stalls wasn’t the worst part either. The worst part was his completely spastic anus.
I don’t know what this man eats, I really don’t. But judging on the noises coming out of the stall, his diet is a combination of dark matter and nitro glycerin. He alternates between disgusting, porcelain splattering sharts and dropping HUGE water breaking plopping turds.
It’s really disgusting.
- Boss: Spaz, is that you?
- Me: Ugh…
- Boss: Good, you’re here. Can we talk about the most recent test results?
- Me: Ugghhh.. (do I have a choice?)
- Boss: Good. Huuunngghh.. PLOP. What results. HUNNNGHHHH! PLOP plop plop plop.. did you get on the last tests?
- Me: We haven’t received the results yet.
- Boss: Huuuunnghh PLURRPPPPBTH! Oh boy, HERRRRRMMPHPH plurphbbhhhttth
- Boss: Did you order a rush analysis Huuuuuughh PLOP
- Me: It’s due this afternoon.
- Boss: PLOP PLOP splish PLOP PLOP splursh PLOP
- Boss: HUUURGHHHHH! PLOP! Come see me when HUURRGHHHH! PLURPHHHBTH PLOP splish PLOP PLOP Faaaaaarrrrrt PLOP splish
- Boss: When you get the URRHHHGGHHHHGHH PLOP plop SPLISH plop URRGHHHHHH plop HUUUUNNGHHH splish PLOP
- Boss: Results of the testing HUUUUNNNGH!
- Boss: HUUUHNG HUUUUUUUUH HUUUUUUUGH HUUUUUUUUUUGH HUUUUUURGHHHHGGH
PLOP!
- Boss: Please and thank you.
He then exits the stall, winks at you, and thanks you for the meeting. Like it was some sort of special treat to sit there and listen to his rectal explosions hit the back of the porcelain like some sort of horrible chocolate coloured train wreck. Like I was supposed to enjoy that crap. Like I’m some sort of sick disgusting plop talker like him. Like I’m his bitch.
Yea, Ok. Maybe I am his bitch. But I’m done. Next time that jackass want’s to plop talk, no only am I ignoring him, but I’m shutting the lights as I walk out.
See ya’ll in the unemployment line!
