I promise you the scat stories will stop very, very soon. I've just about had enough.
Back in early 2005 I was in
The resort was one of those swanky five star joints where everyone is waited on hand-and-foot. Lemongrass makes its way into everything the hotel does, from the scent in the hand towels in the restrooms to the fragrance of the soap—lemongrass everywhere. You can’t escape it.
After a night of putting away strange tropical drinks a few friends and I were nursing hangovers and lazily chewing on pastries from the opulent buffet breakfast at the beach-side restaurant. I’d just poured the first cup of coffee of the day down my guts. I call it the juice loosener for obvious reasons.
“Where’s a good place to take a luxurious dump around here?” I asked my friends.
They all had an opinion and the best recommendation was a relatively isolated restroom just off the path as you make your way from the hotel rooms to the restaurant we were currently stationed. My friends, all true connoisseurs of bowel evacuation, assured me the afore-mentioned restroom offered the best possible shitting experience. They would tell me no more and suggested I experience it first hand.
With the gradually angering turd starting to bash flat-top on my undies—three cups of coffee in rapid succession brings it on quickly—I waddled my way to the highly touted crapper.
My mates weren’t wrong. Walking into the restrooms I was presented with a worthy sight: neatly rolled towels in a basket; perfectly arranged moisturizers arrayed alongside a brightly polished sink accompanied by fragrant white lilies floating in a stainless steel bowl of clear water. Two cylindrical, brushed steel urinals stood proudly on a smooth concrete floor. Tracing a path around the perimeter of the room was what looked like a small crystal clear moat dotted with more floating white lilies. The moat ran in a rectangle around the edge of the room with the two urinals on the short end of the rectangle facing the water's edge and the two stalls situated on both of the rectangle's long sides. Sliding the stall door open I went inside and dropped my strides. Peace at last.
As I commenced my bodily evacuation process I surveyed the placid scene. A perfectly clean, lemongrass-scented toiled seat cradled my cheeks while lily-dotted water trickled lightly in harmony with my piss. It was as if the moat and my body were singing a harmony. Ah, what more could I want?
My moment of tranquil solitude was suddenly smashed by the sound of a boisterous intruder. With motions that implied urgency the intruder rattled on the door of the adjacent stall. Evidently someone else was already in there, enjoying a dump just as peaceful as mine. No luck there. Then came the rattle on my stall's door; his body casting an amorphous shadow over my cubicle's semi-opaque white screen.
“Ooh, fookin’ hell! Fookin’ hell!” he muttered with a tone of frustration, rattling the door once again. Oh great, I thought, he sounds like he's English.
Again he reached for my neighbour’s door, gave it a raucous shake and cried with a hint of pain in his voice “Fook! Fook! Fook!” Yep, he's definitely English and probably much older than me.
The scene then presented to me didn't entirely make sense.
A graying, once ginger-haired man was hovering over the urinal. His pants were down around his ankles and his hand was reaching down towards his nether regions.
Scrubbing my hands down as fast as I could I made my exit, making sure to make absolutely no eye contact with the wanky old man milking his member in my place of peace. It’s fucking gross, but I was out. Free.
As I wandered back to the buffet, I spied the man leaving the restroom only a few seconds after me. Maybe I scared him or broke his concentration, I’m not sure which, but what I then saw made it all clear to me. As the desperate wanker walked off in a divergent direction it became apparent to me what had been going on: a long, distinct streak of his bodily effluent was smeared down the back of his pants. The crotchety coot had crapped himself. He wasn’t jerking his gherkin over the urinal, he was taking a dump. Too many Thai curries had got the better of his GI tract. His panicked sphincter couldn’t contain his curried-up bowels any longer and in a final act of desperation he’d dispersed his poop all over the pristine, lemony urinal.
Thoughts immediately sprang to mind. Should I tell him he’s got shit running down the back of pants? Shall I let him know that when he goes back to the lounge and sits down with his high-class buddies that he’s going to be stamping the velvet with his butt chocolate? Nah, why spoil the fun. More to the point I was too embarrassed for him. I couldn't bring myself to walk up to the man, tap on his shoulder and say, "Hey mate, you've got a dirty big streak of crap on the back of your shorts." It just wouldn't have been right.
Making my way back to the breakfast table I told the tale to my friends. They were enthralled and wanted to witness the scene of the crime. I obliged their interest and showed them the way. Sure enough, there in the urinal was some old codger’s crap. And just to prove how lazy he was, lying there in the middle of the concrete floor was his calling card: an orange-brown nugget of old man feces. I nearly collapsed due to my laughter. A couple of friends shrieked in a combination of disgust and delight.
About thirty minutes later I walked on past the restroom, casting an eye to see what had been done. It was cordoned off and inside a poor hotel worker was tackling the shittiest job going that day: scrubbing up after the loose-arsed limey. I couldn’t have felt more pity.
