Battle in the Booths – Part 2


The one thing bad about working with a tummy that is suffering from food poisoning is that you are so conscious about controlling your sphincter during the meeting that the moment the meeting ends, your sphincter gradually gives way and expects a toilet to appear next to you there and then.

I was in a meeting with clients when the urge came. I controlled myself, and maintained my composure. Slowly as the meeting was wrapping up, I started packing up, all ready to blast off. The moment it ended, I said quick goodbyes and walked to the nearest toilet.


So, I made my way to the lift lobby and summoned a lift. The moment I got into one, I had the urge again – at the 40th floor. Since it was the end of the working day, there was no quick journey down as the lift made a stop at virtually every floor, and that really tested my will to not fart for fear that something else would be purged instead of bad air.

I finally made it to the ground floor and contemplated whether I could make it across the road to my office, or just go to a premier toilet located on the floor I was at. I decided for the latter and rushed there. I paid the mandatory RM2.00 and got me a booth, undid my pants and sat. You know that feeling as soon as you relax your muscles, the first jet of diarrhea shot out, splashing into the bowl. That was followed by one noisy fart…the blabbing type, as air passes through relaxed muscles. It was noisy. As I was about to let loose the second salvo of air and crap mixture, someone walked into the gents, and I had to do that sphincter-muscle control technique again as not to embarrass myself. That’s the funny thing. Not that the guy can see you or anything, but it’s just that embarrassment if I was done and walked out of the booth only to find the guy still standing outside your booth.

I held my breath…both controlling my muscles and trying not to get asphyxiated by the stench the toilet bowl emitted. The guy walked into the booth next to mine, which was a squat-toilet. I could hear the ruffle of his pants as he undid it, and the inevitable silence as he prepares to let go a shot.


And I was like, “What the fuck?”


What was this guy doing? Giving birth or something? Then the expected sound followed:


“Bombs away!” I thought, still controlling my muscle. Then I timed myself to let loose every time he groaned, and it sounded like an ensemble:


And this would repeat several times until I laughed, and he laughed as well, but never uttered a single word.

Soon, he was done. And automatically you go into this toiletiquette mode where either one has to stay inside the booth until the other has walked out of the gents. It’s a face-saving thing that I think goes through the mind of other civilised men who had to crap in public toilets. As soon as he was done, I made sure that the toilet seat was clean, and put in an upright position (yes, we civilised men put up the toilet seat so no one with a weak dick would splash pee on them). To my horror, beneath the toilet seat looked as if someone had spilled a whole pot of curry. So, I quickly got out of the booth to wash my hands. At the same time, two guys walked in to the urinals and then washed their hands at the sinks to my left and right.

Just then, the cleaner came in with a scented towel and a disinfectant to clean the toilet seats. When he walked into the booth where I was, he took a step back, looked at the mess, then left the gents only to walk back in as I was about to walk out with a pail and scrubber. I passed by him slowly, looking at the booth, then at him, then at the guys behind me who were either still washing their hands or were applying the free Body Shop cologne.

The cleaner gazed at them and shook his head, confirming that my blame-deflection technique had work, and I smiled and walked away.