Slightly scatalogical. You’ve been warned.
This is not my story. If it had been, I’m not sure I’d be telling it.
I had a dinner date at a very fancy restaurant. About halfway through the meal, my body informed me that I needed to make a bathroom run – quick. I excused myself and made a beeline for the Men’s Room at not quite a sprint, but I was moving with determination.
As I entered, I rapidly surveyed the space: Double vanity, two urinals, and two toilets stalls. No other customer. Unbuckling my belt as I quickly strode to the nearest stall, I managed to get my pants and underwear around my ankles and sat down just as I ripped off a ten-second porcelain-shattering wet fart. I even impressed myself. But as the echoes faded, I heard the bathroom door shut. Someone else had entered in the middle of my performance.
I was mortified. A couple of seconds of silence ensued, then I heard the door on the stall next to mine close, and a voice akin to a movie announcers reverberated off the tiled walls:
“Player Two Has Entered the Game.”