The Phantom Shitter

Happy Holidays, Taber-philes.

Christ, I can't even make that look convincing, let alone sincere. So, we'll leave the holidays where they belong: in the toilet.

In case you were wondering, I haven't heard from my son or his horrible wife about my Thanksgiving escape. I think they get the idea that I'd rather floss my crotch with barbed wire than sit with them at another god-damned uncomfortable 'family' dinner.

Fuck them.

So, speaking of toilets, I've got a mystery I'm trying to unravel. It started this past Saturday and I'll be dipped in steaming liquid shit if I can't figure it out.

Now, let me set the record straight. The bar I work at isn't some nice little place where the douchebags from downtown get together after a hard day at the office for a little 'wind-down.' No, the bar I tend is a blue-collar, 3rd rate beer-pouring, fuck you if you break the jukebox kind of place. The electronic dartboard doesn't work, most of the neon lights advertising the beers are flickering or out, and the restrooms are places you go to die, not go in there to fucking 'rest.'

Christ, that's good.

Let's put it this way: two of the three urinals in the men's shitter aren't working. One got broken when Drunk Jerry got pissed off and drove his steel-toed boot through the back of it. He screamed that the urinal cake was laughing at the size of his dick and he just went apeshit. The second one is so clogged up with shit that we just taped a sign over it that said "Closed.' Damn if people don't still squirt a few shots in there anyway.

None of the stalls have doors and haven't since I've known about the place. Sure there's all kinds of great writing on the walls. I don't know who's got the patience to sit on the shitter with a knife and carve out things like: My cock is huge or Mary is a filthy whore, but the people who drop a deuce at our place certainly do.

But this all pales in comparison for the goddamn criminal in my midst. Someone who frequents the bar is a very, very sick individual. I'm telling you, they need to see a fucking doctor. Now.

At close on Saturday night, I went into the bathroom to take a quick piss before heading home. I was tired, irritated and wanted to get home, have a Hot Pocket and drop into bed. As I'm watering the back of the urinal I catch the stink.

You know what stink I'm talking about. I won't turn this blog into shit and fart jokes if I can help it. I mean, I'm not that juvenile. I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

After zipping up my third arm, I sauntered over to the last stall. I don't know why, I mean, I'm not the goddamn janitor (he's an Arabic dude named Faji or something and he comes in mornings to clean up), but curiosity got the better of me.

I peeked into the stall and my goddamn eyes almost wept instantly. Not only was the stink legendary, but the sheer SIZE of what I saw was enough to make me go back to church on Sundays.

Okay, let's not get fucking carried away here.

There, hanging over the edge of the toilet like a grown man's arm was the single BIGGEST turd I have ever seen in my life. Nothing in my time in the service could have prepared me for the brown colossus that lie before me.

Imagine those logs you put in the fire that you can buy in stores. I think they're called Duraflame or some shit. Fine. Now imagine unwrapping it and having something that thick and awful coming out of your tender ass.

That's how big this thing was. I had to do the Tabernacle double-take to make sure I wasn't dreaming or piss drunk. I wasn't. It was there, big and brown as day.

I couldn't take my eyes off of it. My nose twitched like a pedophile's pants at a kindergarten Christmas paegent. All that could run through my head was: Who? Who in their right mind could crap out something so huge? So thick? Whoever it was must've had an asshole the size of the Lincoln tunnel.

As I finally drew my eyes away and headed to the sink to wash my hands, a series of questions ran through my head.

- Was it Drunk Jerry? Nah. He hadn't been in tonight.
- How did they manage to get it up onto the seat? It was like the thing wanted to crawl out to freedom.
- Why wouldn't they flush it?
- Were they proud of this monster BM?
- Was there a Guiness Book of World Records section for something like this?
- How much does that thing weigh?
- Just who was the Phantom Shitter?

I left the turd for Faji to clean up in the morning. I went home, didn't bother to eat a Hot Pocket, and tried unsuccessfully to sleep.

The contents of that toilet haunted me. I could only hope whoever was responsible was either dead or just passing through town. Goodnight Phantom Shitter, whoever you are.

You sick fuck.