Return of the Phantom Shitter

Afternoon Tabbies,

Remember some time back when I was telling you about the disgusting grease spot of a human that left the tree-trunk-sized ass log in the men's shitter? It was late last year, if memory serves.

Well, this past Saturday, the PHANTOM SHITTER returned!

I'd all but forgotten about the monstrosity this vile filthy son of a bitch left last time and I went into the can to take a quick slash before Jack (the bar back) and I started to clean the place up for the night.

As soon as I walked in, I could smell ol' PS's calling card.

"Christ Almighty," I grunted, feeling a squirt of vomit jump up into mouth. It seemed the lights dimmed a little and the music from the jukebox out in the bar was between songs. I swear, I'm not John Spielberg, but sometimes the shit around me has a real Hollywood like quality. Call me paranoid, but I'm still waiting for some unlucky prick to jump out with a camera and tell me the stuff that's been happening is all a joke and it'll be on TV, like that dead bastard's show Candy Camera, or whatever.

I'll tell you this: someone tries to pull one over on ol' Bill Tabernacle and they'll be tasting the business end of my bayonet. I'm not putting up with that horseshit. I was in the Korean War for crissakes.

So, long story short, I kicked open the stall doors. Sitting on one of the stalls was ol' Beefcake Murphy, asleep with his pants around his ankles, his wang touching the porcelin, and a wet spot down his left leg. God knows what was floating beneath him in the bowl.

"Get up, you silly fuck," I said, smacking him across the temple. The fat prick grunted, farted and started to stand up. His piss pump dangled like a baby's finger in his unbelievable forest of public hair.

Normally I don't look at the utilities of another man, but if there's a chance I might get a faceful of piss, I'm keeping both eyes open, son. The night I was having, the last thing I needed was for ol' Murphy to squirt me in the gob.

Beefcake started pulling up his pants and staggered out of the stall. A quick glance told me he wasn't the Phantom Shitter. There was a good gallon of two of low grade diarrhea in his bowl. I warned Phil about having our big chili special on Saturdays. It just doesn't agree with most folks and the poor cleaning guy, Faji, ends up spending all his time making the toilets somewhat presentable.

I checked the next stall. Nothing. The only thing I noticed was a new piece of graffiti scrawled into the wall: I wear cunts like hats.

Charming. I'm sure all of the ladies are lined up at your door, pal.

The last stall had to be it. If memory served, it was also the place the vile son of a bitch shit his guts out the first time. The stink was overwhelming, but I had no choice. I had to crack this case once and for all.

There, lying half in the bowl and half on the seat(!) was the evidence that our bar had once again been visited by the PHANTOM SHITTER. Seriously. It's almost inhuman. How could anyone without an asshole like the Lincoln Tunnel pass something so big out of their shitcutter? How does it not look like a murder took place in this stall? There should be blood in the toilet, claw marks on the walls, and we should've heard this poor soul's scream of terror as this monster screamed it's way out of his asshole.

How was this possible?

"Holy huge shit," a voice from behind me said. I half expected it to be Beefcake Murphy, but he was washing his dick in the sink. No. Standing behind me, was Jack. He had four empty bottles in his hand, and he stood there with his mouth agape, amazed at the brown record breaker desecrating our bar's toilets.

"Close your mouth, son," I warned him. "Try not to breathe it in."

"Is it the Phantom?"

"Ayuh," I said and spit at the thing, half expecting it to spring up and attack the both of us. "Get a ruler."

Jack, ever the loyal barback went and found a ruler in the back office and brought it back to me. I hadn't moved an inch while he left. I only heard Beefcake slip and fall, whacking his dumb head on our filthy floors.

"You gonna push it back in, or..." Jack slapped the ruler in my hand. The way he was talking, he thought the giant shit was like a beached whale and it was just a matter of me rolling it back to whence it came, but no. I had other plans.

I took the ruler and getting closer than I cared, stuck one end into the cakey, brown mass. I pressed down until I could feel the end touch the seat. I had to measure the thing, there was no getting around it.

"Fuck me," I muttered and gagged. It was like I'd released even more stink by cutting into the thing. I squinted through watering eyes and looked to see the number on the ruler. I blinked to make sure it was legit.

The turd was just under six inches thick.

Jack gave the sign of the cross. I gulped back the vomit in my mouth.

"This is unbelievable, boy," I whispered, trying hard to keep any open orifices on my face closed. "There is a monster frequenting our bar and we've got to catch him."

Jack nodded. He knew what was at stake. He pulled out his cell phone and somehow managed to take a picture of the thing, complete with the ruler stuck into it. It seemed we had to keep our eyes peeled for this creature. This fiend with the anus not unlike a boa constrictor.

We would find him.
Confront him.
Suggest he seek medical attention.
Also, we would ask him to not leave giant, mutant turds on our toilet seats.

I closed the door. Faji would have his hands full cleaning up this atrocity.