Toilet Humour

Not so much gags about dropping your pants in the misguided pursuit of comedic merit, more a transcription of a microcosmic example of what happens where corporate life and bodily fluids collide. Although not in the truly physical sense – well at least I hope not.

A man of a certain age is left with few pleasures; one of those remaining is a full and detailed review of the sports pages while communing with nature. And not in this modern willy in one hand, IPAQ in the other whilst wetting the urinal rubbish. I’ve mentally lambasted those nonses cracking off an email or checking out the football scores, when their attention should really be on what’s in front of them, or as happens rather more often, what’s leaking onto their shoes.

No I’m talking old school, slam the door shut to trap 1, perform the trick of dropping your strides while simultaneously rustling open the paper, and plonk yourself down on the thankfully unwarmed seat and think of England. The social variant of this process calls for a hearty cough to disguise the unfolding in case of other occupants prowling in this last Bastian of the male.

So obviously a communal gasp (or possibly gas) escaped both of us when we realised that the trap next door was occupied. Oh the stomach plunging embarrassment of being caught in loco paparis with literally your trousers round your ankles. This situation demanded a mature response, and in that vein I settled comfortably and refused to make even the tiniest sound until he wiped and ran. Unfortunately he too evidently couldn’t face the social stigma of being outed as a thunderbox rustler and adopted exactly the same ploy of total silence.

We’d probably still be there now except for a desperately difficult situation unfolding in Trap 3. The final cistern was being noisily breached by a man who’d clearly had a bowel full of sprouts in his recent digestive history. It put me in mind of “The Ride of the Valkyries” arranged for Rectal Oboe and Small Intestinal Trumpet. Think of the kind of sound a horse attempting to play the trombone may well make and you’re right in here with us.

This went on for some time.

I was really struggling to concentrate on who should play inside centre for England’s rugby team while the strain and strains of trap three continued to assail the senses. And that’s all the senses, it was a ground trembling, nasally abhorrent discharge which would be militarily classed as weapons grade.

I’m here to bust that myth which links volume and odour. Only silent ones smell? Oh I wish, I really do.

I felt if this went on for much longer, he would have essentially shit out his entire small intestine. Amazingly the situation became even more grave when Trap 2 began to chortle – it was one of those hand in the mouth, really trying to keep it in but it’s making a break for freedom chuckles. Into the discordant harmony of one man laughing and one man trumpeting came the sound of a mobile phone ringing.

I began to eat the paper in desperation; it was clear to me that if I began giggling now, men with serious expressions, white coats and strong tranquillizers would soon be hauling me smartly to the local mental institution. And at the very point when I was considering a dash for freedom and to hell with the consequences, silence claimed the room. Trap two has probably asphyxiated and the man with a wind turbine up his chuff stilled the ringing by astoundingly answering it in a hoarse whisper, or possibly horse whisper considering what had gone on before.

Hello love, look I’m really sorry but I can’t talk now. I’m in a very important meeting

Who with? Your arse?

That was me done. To hell with social convention, a desperate sequence of trousers, remainder of paper, lock, door and desultory hygiene ended in a fast dash into a quiet corridor. Where I cried with laughter until my sides literally hurt.

I can’t even begin to catalogue the wrongness of the episode so instead I’ll leave you with this; I have no idea who the bloke was but be sure I’ll be carefully monitoring the spout rations in the canteen from now on and planning my visits more carefully in future.

6 thoughts on “Toilet Humour”

  1. LOL! Excellent Alex. I’ve just been catching up on my RSS feeds and after reading the backlog of your quite prolific pontifications, this one takes the biscuit, as it were.

  2. There are a few people from work who have nothing better to do that read this site. We’re now running a book on the identify of the bloke whose digestive system was powered by the Devil’s Testicles.

  3. Having been sent the link to this site & suffering from insomnia I’ve stumbled on this blog. How funny – just what I needed!

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