The Dancing Bladder / The Brown Martyr

6 09 2010

The Dancing Bladder/ The Brown Martyr

Paul rushed into the washroom. A dancing bladder. And in his haste to get to a urinal almost tripped over it. He looked down at the turd resting in the middle of the floor. For a moment he just stared. His eyes dilated. His mouth hanging. Open. And then his bladder began to dance. Her rushed into a stall and took his piss. A sigh. And then the memory. He looked out of the stall. It was still there. On the floor. There were vapours rising from the pile. And a quality about it that was disturbing. Paul reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone.

A phone rang on the other end of his call.

“Ya.”

“John.”

“Paul.”

Paul: “I’m sorry to call you up at work.”

John: “I’m not at work. Yet.”

Paul: “Well…”

John: “I’m on the subway. Slept in again. I hate daylight savings time. Throws me off every year. Ferguson is going to be so pissed. God, I’m going to catch shit. Why are you …”

Paul: “Just a minute.”

Paul flushed the toilet and tucked himself in. Carefully, with one eye on the turd, he slipped out of the stall and slid over to the washbasin. He washed and dried his hands.

Paul: “Sorry about that.”

John: “Are you in the washroom?”

Paul: “Ya.”

John: “I could have done without listening to you and your toilet. Are your pants…”

Paul: “It’s an emergency.”

John: “An emergency?”

Paul: “Just a minute. I’m going to send you a pic.”

John: “I don’t think…”

Paul pointed his phone at the turd. A moment later.

John: “What the hell is that?”

Paul: “Exactly what it looks like.”

John: “Do I need to see this?”

Paul: “It’s not mine. That’s the point. I came into the washroom and I found it here. At work. On the floor. In the middle of the washroom.”

John: “Shit! It’s huge. Who’s the proud father?”

Paul: “I have no idea.”

John: “Who would do something like this? It’s sick.”

Paul: “Now, you understand.”

John: “I gotta tell you, man. It does look like your handy work.”

Paul: “Who are you talking to?”

John: “I showed it to the guy sitting next to me. He couldn’t figure out what it was. At first.”

Paul: “Could we keep this between the two of us?”

John: “Don’t worry. The guy moved to another seat.”

Paul: “Maybe it’s my fault. Karma.”

John: “Karma?”

Paul: “You know my boss. I told you about him. Big prick. I feel like bashing his head in. If I ever meet him in a bar, that’s what I’m going to do. Treats me like I’m some kind of lackey. Always giving me orders.”

John: “He’s the boss. That’s what bosses do.”

Paul: “I got rights too!”

John: “I see that those anger management classes have finally set in.”

Paul: “It could be karma. All that animosity. Maybe this is the universe getting back at me.”

John: “I don’t think the universe lays big brown ones on bathroom floors. What are you going to do now?”

Paul: “Do?”

John: “If anyone sees you leaving the washroom, you’ll be pegged as the most likely candidate for giving birth to…”

Paul: “Jesus! You’re right. What am I going to do?”

John: “Besides cleaning it up…”

Paul: “That is not going to happen.”

John: “Just a minute…”

Paul: “Why do these things have to happen…”

John: “The woman beside me says that you should clean it up. Why should some minimum wage cleaning lady have to deal with it? She is very convincing.”

Paul: “It’s not mine! I ain’t cleaning up what ain’t mine. God, it stinks something…”

John: “Are there any other exits? From the washroom?”

Paul: “There’s a window. But its too small. With my luck I’d get stuck in it.”

John: “Consensus here is that you should run out of the bathroom and scream ‘I didn’t do it’.

Paul: “Consensus?”

John: “I took a vote. There’s quite a crowd gathered around. Maybe we could put it on the net. You’re sitting on a gold mine, buddy. You might end up on Letterman.”

Paul: “Oh my God!”

John: “What now?”

Paul: “Its… moving.”


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