It's Not Just One Big Poop Joke, I Swear

Before I begin this, let me reassure you of a couple things.

1. This post may be dedicated to a failed attempt of a bathroom, but I will do my duty (teehee) to refrain from using too many poop jokes.
2. I could swear on my family's old dead dog's cremated remains that this account is true in the fullest.
3. I probably lied about point number one.

So let's get started here.

See, I'm on my school's speech team (AKA Forensics, and not the sweet crime kind playing The Who during their introductions), and for a good chunk of my winter, I wake up early every Saturday morning, put on a fancy business suit, and proceed to act my ass off in order to win trophies to make me feel a lot better about myself.

Yes.  I said early Saturday mornings.  And I'm a morning person, so it really is early.

I'm talking 5:30 AM.  Every week.

I never said it was sane.


Anyway, I tell you this now because for those of you fine souls that don't know about this speech thing is that it pretty much controls my life during the months of January, February, and March.  SO PAY ATTENTION BECAUSE I WILL ONLY EXPLAIN THIS ONCE.

So each of these Saturdays, I act in what one would call an "interpretive duo."  That means I have a duo partner, which is probably how they got the title of "duo." Smart people, these Speech folks.

When I reference my partner, that means the duo partner.

And for the past two years, I had an absolutely amazing duo partner who was smart, beautiful, funny, sweet, hilarious, and is a current follower on my blog who I don't want to insult into not following me (which is a distinct possibility because she hates the word "poop").  I figured that I should probably mention her in a story that she is involved, sort of, in.

Now, for my actual story.

I spent the entire day at a Centennial High School at a speech meet.  You probably could have guessed this, but I was repetitive for a reason.

It just took me four times to type "repetitive."  It simply is not a fun word to type.

Anyhoo, at said meet, I was feeling really...uh...in need to, well, go to the bathroom.

It's a natural human feeling, stop getting all grossed out.

However, I found I desperately needed an actual stall to do my business, and everyone knows that the bathrooms closest to the large group of people are crowded as hell. So naturally, I do what any kid would do, and I roamed the school for another bathroom.

Now, this was my first mistake.  I had never been to this Centennial High school before, and I had to learn the hard way that, under extreme need-to-poop stress, most buildings suddenly grow to the size of the Mall of America.

Nevertheless, I found a bathroom. Conveniently right next to the rooms I had to present my duo in (now remember what I said earlier). And while I thought this was a total win on my part, I wondered why no one left or entered. The door was unlocked, and it didn't smell TOO bad.

However, seeing as I was plagued with illness that day, and talked through every round with a voice that was about as raspy as George Lopez with a sneeze fetish (that was probably the wrong word to use), I couldn't really smell anything at all.

Either way, I walked into what I assumed was the most glorious thing on the planet, only to find out that the stalls in this bathroom were about as much of a stall as Joe Stalin was a nice guy.

He killed millions of people. He's not nice.

This stall had no door. It's not a stall.

Not only did the stall have no door, the stall next to it, which, despite saying it was, wasn't bigger to accomodate a person in a wheelchair (although I'd avoid the place too whether my legs worked or not) ALSO had no door.

Awkward? Oh, it only gets better.

These doorless stalls were not only, well, doorless, but there wasn't any sign of there ever being a door in the first place. Although a door would have done nothing to hide anyone who had to take a poo anyway, seeing as I would have been able to see over the wall while I was crouching over the porcelain throne doing what could be considered less than royal business anyway.

So after staring at this complete fail of basic public restroom privacy (although seeing as I have moments like these at so many speech meets I doubt there even is such a thing) for, say, a good three or four seconds, I turn to leave, only to be nearly pushed aside by a rather urgent-looking fellow, who proceeded to do the exact same thing as me.

Needless to say, I didn't have any time to find another restroom and had a rather unpleasant second round.

I complained about my woes to my grossed out partner, who promptly told me to shut up because it was not a pleasant thing to talk about.

Turns out girls don't like to talk about defacation.  I can't imagine why.

But don't feel too bad.  We got an honorable mention that week.  That's always a good thing, right?