The Pub Discussion Board

I found this a couple of years ago on another forum, not mine...based on a post from "Best of Craigslist"
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toilet terrorist at work; largely based on a best of cl post

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Reply to: xxxx-867302413@craigslist.org [?]
Date: 2008-10-05, 1:17PM EDT


You are my arch nemesis. I see you wandering around as I go about my IT Computer Nerd business: Tall. Middle Eastern. Pot Belly. We catch each others eye every now and then and give a slight nod. I know you and what you do, and I am on to your games.

This morning we made eye contact and you nodded as usual then took another bite of whatever foreign garbage you fuel up on that makes the bathroom smell like the inside of a dead monkey's colon. But I got you this time, f**ker.

I gave you my icy grin and nodded back, then hurried back to my office. It was almost noon, when you love to run to the toilet and perform your daily ASS JIHAD on all the employees just trying to wash our hands before lunch. Maybe in your country common sense doesn't dictate that lunch time = hand washing time. People want to get clean and eat, not be fumigated with high-octane liquid s**t.

But I got you this time. Yeah, motherflipper, I had SOMETHING COOKING UP FOR YOU! Two egg sandwiches smothered in cheese, greasy sausage patties, a couple of glasses of Tang with Metamucil, some leftover Chinese food, a Twix, some Root Beer soda, steamed broccoli, a Hot Pocket with pepperoni and cheese, a Chocolate Poptart, and--the cherry on top--a McDonald's Quaterpounder with cheese. I never eat that greasy and nasty s**t, but today I fought back. I did it for me and for all Americans.

By 11:30, my stomach was really turning, but I slipped out for an early lunch and took a quick mile jog anyway. I almost died! My stomach felt like there were two midgets fighting to the death inside. I then proceeded to crawl back to work with my ass cheeks clenched tighter than a virgin's thighs around Bill Clinton.

Great! The hot chick from the office next door wanted to chat. Thankfully, she assumed the sweat on my face and arms was simply from running instead of induced by my severe sphicter trauma. After she finally shut up, I staggered to the Ass Arena.

You were already there in your favorite stall: The one right next to the f**king sinks. You stupid, socially retarded f**k. Fine! You had yet to begin your daily purge of Middle Eastern Ass Stew. I entered the stall next to you and ripped my pants down in anticipation of the upcoming battle.

Your opening salvo then fired: A sloppy wet fart with a solid-shot closer. I laughed, announced "amateur" then showed you the power of American junk food.

The tuba fart I unleashed echoed off the walls and shrunk my waistline about an inch. Some guy at the urinal laughed then died laughing as I slapped the wall between you and I and said, "Back to YOU, Kajid!".

But you were silent, probably realizing who I was and that the time had come for us to battle. I figured you were summoning your intestinal fortitude for full out war, and you do not disappoint me...

With a hissing "SSSShhhhhzzzzzzzzz!" you squirted out a deadly napalm of ass juice that polluted the air and made my head swim. The ****er at the urinal was no longer laughing but had quickly zipped up and beat feet for the door.

I covered my mouth and nose with my shirt and the black spots no longer blurred my vision. I was ready.

"AAaaaaaaaRRRRRGGGHHH!" I yelled as I dropped Big Tim. (That's short for "Big Timber" ... AKA "Mississippi Butt Log"). Then rapid-fire farts stuttered out of my ass like an M-60, then I pushed the monster log from the s**t Dimension into our reality. The beefy, yeasty stench easily overpowered the Indian Ass Gutter odor of your previous attack. "Mega Turd" hit the bowl with a mighty splash, reeking like a dead whale slowly rotting in the hot, tropical sun.

I caught my breath, wiped my brow, and started to pat myself on the back, but you weren't ready to surrender.

The only thing I can think of is that you must have completely unzipped your ass to your elbow. That's the only way I can begin to explain the lumpy, creamy splashes pouring out of your ass into the toilet. It sounded like you were pouring a gallon of strawberry shake with whole strawberries into the bowl.

Then I spied the hairs on my arms starting to curl from the horrid stench wafting up from under your stall. I shuddered and swayed on my throne, unsure if I would survive. But the red, white, and blue was at stake, so failure was not an option.

You left me no choice: I had to employ the Deal Breaker. So I hunkered down and clenched my hands together. My fingers twitched and entwined like a nest of snakes, like I was running through a series of ancient Ninja Hand Symbols. Then my feet lifted up onto their toes and my legs started to shake.

"You want to play, Bin Laden" I growled. A low moaning then came from my stomach, like a dinosaur calling into a swampy, foggy night. "YOU GOT IT! AAAAAAHHHHHH!"

Like Cloud summoning The Knights of the Round in Final Fantasy 7, I summoned the Excalibur of Turd Demons to destroy my enemy. Hot, magma-like s**t rocketed out of my ass, releasing a noxious, sticky cloud of deadly rectal perfume. I heard you gag and saw your feet shuffling around, but still squeezing one out yourself, you couldn't get away, now could you?

Veins throbbed on my neck and temples as the turd monster continued tearing itself from my bowels. My lips curled back from my now clenched teeth and I tried not to scream. Your roll of toilet paper then unraveled into my stall. You must have torn it from the wall with numb fingers in an attempt to "Wipe and Scoot." Too late. MUCH too late!

Odor's pounded you like merciless fists: Rotten Fruitcake stuffed with boiled chicken a****les. Hammered s**t-logs served on a bed of week old white rice. Rosie O'Donnel's rancid crotch farts. The smell of your mom's dank, hairy Middle Eastern armpits.

Then your stall door slammed open and you staggered out, crawling three unsteady steps to the door, barely opening it wide enough to slip out. You didn't even bother flushing or washing your hands.

I laughed at you before you left. "Yeah! RUN, you toilet terrorist!" I yelled," and laughed again. "Score one for America!" You said nothing.

It was all over then except for the clean up. f**k with me again, you s**t-filled Anal Terrorist and you f**k with America. Me and my ass will be waiting.

Last edited by StoryJunkie (2011-08-29 06:59:09)