In less than an hour, my gut started rumbling ominously. What you have to understand about my office is that it is not so much an office as a shared cube in a floor that carries sound like the Sistine Chapel. Just as with every cough or phone call, the increasingly urgent and lengthy gurgles and rumbles from my intestines could be heard by every cube dweller on the floor.
After about twenty minutes of these increasingly frequent intestinal outbursts, I knew I had to do something to take care of this, something soon. That something would require a lengthy visit to a bathroom, preferably on a different floor, to thoroughly empty my bowels of their foul contents. Unfortunately, I was also deep in the bowels of superdebugging a particularly troublesome problem, and leaving now would lose my train of thought. "Just a few more minutes," I told myself, and I would come to a stopping point, clock out, excuse myself, and spend a good nonbillable quarter-hour worshipping the porcelain god. With this assurance, I stolidly braved on, my gut-alarm loudly sounding every half minute.
Just as I saved my work, my manager poked her head in. She had just gotten out of an executive meeting in the conference room, and as such was one of the few people on the floor who hadn't spent the past half-hour accompanied by the soundtrack of gasses and liquids warring in my duodenum. Now she wanted to talk about something. "Do you have a min-... OH MY GOD!"
At that exact instant, the pressure built up in my rectum exploded in a gaseous eruption of fart and liquid shit, overwhelming my startled anus's efforts to withhold it. I shit my pants as I sat, and stunned by the sensation of crapping my pants, bolted out of my chair. Standing up was the tipping point. Liquid crap now erupted freely from my diarrhea-lubricated asshole, filling my pants.
Aghast, my boss jumped back, not knowing what to do. The wall of stench advanced and filled the floor. I froze for a second, then sprinted past her, down the hall, down the stairs, to a bathroom, any bathroom not on my floor. As I ran my shit streamed down my legs, over my shoes, onto the carpet. I tracked shit as I ran.
In the bathroom stall, I took stock of the situation. It was pretty grim. I stripped off my pants and underwear. I tossed my boxer shorts, full of shit, into the trash can. With some paper towels I wiped as much as I could off my shirt, pants, and shoes. I wasn't very thorough because I just wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. So with that, I texted my manager that I would be out sick the rest of the day, pulled on my shitty pants, darted out of the building, and trudged home.
Usually it would be a thirty minute walk, but I took small back streets to avoid running into anyone while still covered in shit and it took more like fifty minutes. Still, I had to cross a busy bridge to get home. Some people did a double-take and hurried past as I stankily approached. A homeless man commented, "Damn, you stink bro."
Back at home, I stripped and threw my entire outfit into a trash bag and took a thirty-minute shower. Later I got online and chatted with one of my friends from work. Apparently my entire wing of the floor left early for the day, and the facilities people called an emergency meeting. A cleaning company is coming in tonight to steam-clean the carpeting. Also, I might need a new chair.
I'm not looking forward to going to work tomorrow.