When I was 14 and working in a restaurant, someone laid, seriously, a two-foot coil in the loo. So us kids stared at each other dumbly, all grossed out, and asked the head cook what to do. He walked in with the knife he was using to chop green peppers and sliced the log up, then went back to the peppers with the same knife.
A woman came into the emergency room saying that she was having a baby. Turns out she gave birth to a HUGE poop that had to be broken up with a tongue depressor before it could be flushed.
It was a Saturday. I was the only one working. Earlier that week I had a case of the runs but it had cleared up by Saturday. Or so I thought. I had some gas and because no one else was in the office, I was free to let it rip.
Saturdays were quite slow but I was on a call when another gas pain hit, so I let that one go also. Only it wasn’t just gas. It was a blow out. Well, it could’ve been worse because even though I was talking to someone, I realized I had to do some damage control and held back what I could.
Within a couple seconds I told the client I’d have to call him back, that there was an emergency, and I asked for his number. I sat there wondering what to do. The bathroom was three hallways away, and I was, well, squishy. I was worried I’d run into someone and be forced into a conversation. I thought about closing up for the day but that would require a long, moist trip to the parking lot.
After deciding I couldn’t clean up at my desk, I glided to the bathroom as quickly and motionlessly as I could.
I cleaned myself up using toilet paper and toilet water. A pair of poopy underwear was stashed in the hygienic products bin that day, wrapped in about half a roll of toilet paper.
Got back to the desk, called the customer back, and finished out my shift.