I shat myself
We're doing poo stories, yeah?

One day at work, instead of going to the canteen, I went down the road and got an ebola burger and a can of pop. Fifteen minutes later, I was back at my desk, but I felt a rumbling and my tail was twitching.

I stood up. Now I couldn't possibly crap in bog No. 1, so I had to trot over the corridor to the other one. Would I make it in time? I walked awkwardly past bog No. 2, my pace quickening. Some fool was blocking the door in front of me. Hurry up! Overtake him, across the corridor, into bog No. 3, I was practically sprinting at this point.

Once through both doors, my hands were already on my belt. Luckily a cubicle was free. I dashed in, spun round, and yanked my trousers and pants down in one go, unhindered by my belt.

Then "shit happened" as they say. I wasn't even seated at this point.

It went everywhere. In the bog, on the bog, up the wall, across the floor. My pants were a write-off.

Needless to say, the bog roll was those stupid flimsy sheets rather than the real deal you have at home. Wipe wipe, in the bog, lid down, flush. Repeat. At this rate I reckoned I could kind of clean the place up in a couple of hours.

Then the cleaner stuck her head round the outer door and asked whether anyone was in there. I confirmed there was. Damn! I couldn't ask her to come back at 3pm. Now she was waiting outside the door, and she'd know I was the dirty bastard who'd soiled the place.

What was I supposed to do with my pants? I couldn't stick them in my pocket, they were too far gone for that.

I gave up, and chucked them in the corner.

I legged it. That poor woman. I never wore that shirt or tie again in the hope she wouldn't recognise me.

The following day I noticed there was shit on my ID badge.
(Bob the Builder killed Captain Alex, Mon 22 Jun 2015, 22:17, Reply)