As you may know, I work at a place that handles industrial-grade chemicals, and I drive for nearly two hours to get there. The relevance of these two facts intersected last week when, arriving after a long drive, I decided to relieve myself.
I'll be forty years old this year, which is apparently the age where one begins to more deeply appreciate the value of a leisurely, thorough crap. Settling in for one of the high points of my day, I happily and innocently released a nugget into the wild.
As soon as it hit the water, it was obvious that something was up. My chunk of butt-spawn instantly began crackling and fizzing like a red-hot coal fired into seltzer water. "Jesus, what did I eat?" and "I don't know what it's doing, but it must be really cool to see" were two initial reactions that competed inside my head.
As I briefly contemplated rising and turning to witness what I could only imagine was the spontaneous evolution of a hideous new life form, the fumes overtook me. My eyes teared up effusively and I suddenly couldn't breathe.
Luckily, there was an adjacent anteroom, still-private, and absent the poisonous wraith that had suddenly attacked me. Oh, how grateful was I for this space of grace, for it spared me the legend-creating indignity of shuffling woundedly, coughing and sputtering out into the open, thrusting my privates into public, and imposing my undabbed brown eye on the conservative old gentleman whose desk was unfortunately situated directly outside the restroom door. Oh, that is the type of event that lingers in one's consciousness. While I have enough of the comedian in me to appreciate the hilarity of such an occurrence, I can't quite bring myself to welcome it.
Hobbled by the pants that were around my ankles, I wobbled into the nearby chamber, my brown eye still in need of hygienic attention. A watery glance into the mirror afforded me a momentary, out-of-body reflection of the moment's absurdity, although I don't think it needed emphasis. Panting in the relatively clean air, I gathered myself and weighed my options. Then, heaving a deep breath, I shuffled back into what I now had correctly dubbed the "gas chamber," grabbed some toilet paper, and waddled ignobly back out to wipe that which needed wiping.
A few more like that, and my harrowing, humbling business was concluded. I emerged into the fresh air with a story to tell and questions to ask. It turns out that my boss had ruptured a bottle of chlorine and had decided to make use of the otherwise-useless chemical, apparently figuring: "waste not want not - why throw this out when I can just as easily poison an employee in a hilarious and life-threatening practical joke?" I spent the rest of the day comparing him to Saddam Hussein for gassing his own people.
Oh how we laughed - between coughing fits.
