Worst Place to be when you have to Poop

[Bing in Buffalo]

Id say it has to be in line at the Bank,

late on a friday when it is busy. Some epic crop dusting.....

Once my friend took a dump on the golf couse,

I knew i kept the wet wipes in my golf bag for just such an emergency.

[Boynton Beach Jets]

In the parking lot after Jets game

[Fishooked]

In the car, stuck in traffic, on the way to work. Once I nearly **** myself in the car.

****tiest start to the day ever.

[Bing in Buffalo]

Originally Posted by Fishooked

In the car, stuck in traffic, on the way to work. Once I nearly **** myself in the car.

****tiest start to the day ever.

how about the knee knocking duck walk when you get out of the car?

OMG

[Ruby2]

I dont know about the worst place to be, but I have been noticing an alarming urge to poo everytime I am in the mall recently.

Its like clockwork...weird.

[DDNYjets]

In the middle of some hot and steamy sex.

[Jets Things]

10 minutes into an hour massage.

[Bonhomme Richard]

Originally Posted by Ruby2

I dont know about the worst place to be, but I have been noticing an alarming urge to poo everytime I am in the mall recently.

Its like clockwork...weird.

That happens to me whenever I'm in a bookstore.

I would think the worst place to have to do it would be on a plane or a long train ride. Has that ever happened to anyone here? I fear that.

[Fishooked]

Originally Posted by Bing in Buffalo

how about the knee knocking duck walk when you get out of the car?

OMG

Once I had to to an emergency pit stop at a gas station on the way to work; I was in no mans-land; too far away from the house, but nowhere near the office.

I wasn't going to make it.

So I violated this Exxon station whose bathroom door was way too close to the cashier/register inside. Busy morning, lots of people stopping in to get gas, coffee, smokes, etc. Flimsy door.

The toilet was missing its lid, and the seat wasnt even bolted on, but at least there was toilet paper. This wasn't like easing a log into a pool, it was the loudest & smelliest dump to the point of being obnoxious. And of course nothing amplifies sound like sitting in a concrete & tile box.

I finished as fast as I could, and did the walk of shame out of there, eyes on the floor. I knew the line of 7 people deep were just waiting to see what type of foul human being was capable of making such noises and olfactory violations. I was almost going to make a pity purchase as a small token of apologizing to the station owner for my scatological disaster, but thought better of it and just got the hell out of there.

[Jets Things]

Originally Posted by Bonhomme Richard

That happens to me whenever I'm in a bookstore.

I would think the worst place to have to do it would be on a plane or a long train ride. Has that ever happened to anyone here? I fear that.

They still have those?

I've dropped heat on a plane before and found it humiliating to walk past those waiting to use the bathroom after I fouled it.

[Fishooked]

Originally Posted by Jets Things

They still have those?

I've dropped heat on a plane before and found it humiliating to walk past those waiting to use the bathroom after I fouled it.

Well, thats a new one. Well done

[Bing in Buffalo]

Originally Posted by Jets Things

They still have those?

I've dropped heat on a plane before and found it humiliating to walk past those waiting to use the bathroom after I fouled it.

being the next in line after an elderly person.

wow

[Bonhomme Richard]

Originally Posted by Jets Things

They still have those?

I've dropped heat on a plane before and found it humiliating to walk past those waiting to use the bathroom after I fouled it.

I would assume the flushing mechanism on a plane toilet isn't hardy enough for anything greater than a light stream of urine.

[crasherino]

I can't for the life of me remember the name of this blog, but this guy related the absolute worst dump story....

He was on a private plane on a road show with clients as well as competitors. There was no real bathroom, only a pop up type thing under one of the seats in the back that had only a small curtain that only covered about halfway to the ceiling.

After sweating it out and trying to hold it in for 1/2 hour, he had to displace his female client from the seat and proceeded to pollute the entire plane with basically the **** that Fish described above. People tried to ignore him but that's pretty much an impossibility when you're in such tight quarters.

Reading that story made me cringe - really felt for the guy. Could have been any of us.

[1greenNUT]

Holding cell, immediately following snorting all the coke as you're getting pulled over.

[PlumberKhan]

I only crap at home.

Not because I'm freaked out about public toilets (edit: this is pretty much implied I guess. Would be extremely difficult to be a plumber AND be freaked out by public toilets. kinda like being a Veterinarian who is allergic to dogs)...but because I worked as a plumber for most of my life doing new construction.

By the time there was a working toilet at the jobsite...it meant I was finished and was off to the next rough/finish.

[Fishooked]

Originally Posted by crasherino

I can't for the life of me remember the name of this blog, but this guy related the absolute worst dump story....

He was on a private plane on a road show with clients as well as competitors. There was no real bathroom, only a pop up type thing under one of the seats in the back that had only a small curtain that only covered about halfway to the ceiling.

After sweating it out and trying to hold it in for 1/2 hour, he had to displace his female client from the seat and proceeded to pollute the entire plane with basically the **** that Fish described above. People tried to ignore him but that's pretty much an impossibility when you're in such tight quarters.

Reading that story made me cringe - really felt for the guy. Could have been any of us.

I never read it - but I think I found it - is this it?

http://totalfratmove.com/782530

Your Average Business Trip…Gone Horribly Wrong
Posted by gselevator 316 days ago



Quite a few years ago, we were in the middle of an investor roadshow, marketing a new high-yield corporate bond offering. Sound exciting? Well, it’s anything but.

In a nutshell, a roadshow involves taking borrowers (bond issuers) to meet potential investors. A roadshow is a series of back-to-back investor meetings and group investor lunches, all sandwiched in between market update calls and flights to the next city, where the process repeats itself. They are arduous, grueling and sometimes very stressful. It’s a nonstop scramble from hotel to meetings to airports. There are dozens of reasons why a deal can go sour, and angry clients don’t want to hear any of them.

A typical roadshow investor meeting entails bankers and clients going through a hard-copy PowerPoint presentation, addressing any structural, disclosure or financial issues in the offering prospectus, and taking Q&A. By the time this spectacle concludes, I’ll have heard the same presentation more than twenty times.

The worst job, by far, on any roadshow is that of the analyst. Analysts are the pledges of the financial world. It’s where everyone has to take his two or three years of licks after coming out of the training program. It’s masochism born out of stupidity. What at first seems like the big time soon turns into eighteen hour days, seven days a week, all of it mindless crap like churning out pitch books and just about any other **** work the Associates don’t want to do.

On roadshows, analysts are responsible for carrying pitch books and prospectuses, which can be ****ing heavy. In addition, they oversee all logistics (hotels, flights, cars, etc.) and most importantly, do anything the client asks. All of this has to be done without ****ing up – period. The job ****ing sucks, but all analysts want to do it.

When I was an analyst, if another bank was responsible for roadshow logistics and I wasn’t traveling with them, I would often give their analyst intentionally incorrect information, the wrong floor, or the wrong tower, anything to make them look bad. Although the banks may be working together on one deal, we’re always competing for the next one.

I was senior enough on this offering that I was there to represent the firm’s relationship with the investors, as well as to help sell the deal. For this roadshow, given the schedule of meetings and travel logistics, it made sense to travel by private plane. Flying private with a bunch of bankers is nothing like being Vinny Chase.

On a commercial flight, with some basic preparation, you can make sure you aren’t seated anywhere near a more senior colleague or a client. Instead of working, or reading the latest copy of IFR (look it up, it sucks) or some other industry periodical, you can watch a movie, get some sleep and have a few drinks. The best part of any airport lounge or any first-class cabin is that no matter what time of day it’s generally socially acceptable to drink.

My routine is as monotonous as the roadshow. Phone alarm clock goes off at six-thirty in the morning. Blackberry alarm clock goes off at six-forty five. The first wake-up call comes at six-fifty five, and the “waffle wakeup call” arrives at seven sharp. A “waffle wakeup call” is something that many of us do on a business trip. Upon first checking into a hotel, I pre-arrange breakfast room service with strict instructions to come in and make sure that I am awake and/or still alive. You can’t risk waiting to do this before you go to sleep, in the likely event that you won’t have any recollection of getting back to the hotel that night.

Six-thirty isn’t particularly early by my standards, but it is after the typical night out on a roadshow – wining and dining the client over dinner and drinks and then more drinks and more drinks. Banks usually pay for the roadshow expenses out of deal fees (1-2% for a decent high-yield deal), so the client wants to, and expects to, have a good time, especially if the deal is going well. In many cases, it’s the most exciting thing these ****s will do all year, so they want to make the most of it.

The client festivities usually wrap up by midnight. Corporate execs are not cut from the same cloth as investment bankers. From there I’ll get into the elevator with the clients, talk about what a big day we have coming up and drop them off on their floor before doubling back downstairs. I usually have pre-made arrangements to meet anyone I can – friends, colleagues, competitors, or even other clients for more drinks. We’ll carry on as long as we can, then work our way back to the hotel for a nightcap (two-ish), where we can sit back and watch the whores-on-parade, as they escort the drunken businessmen back up to their rooms. Anyone who has spent any time in continental Europe or Asia knows that this is not in any way an exaggeration.

The client breakfast usually starts downstairs at 8:00am. Having scarfed down two coffees and some waffles in my room, this is when I’ll order a jasmine tea and a fruit plate just to make a point to the client that I’m a dedicated professional. I usually accompany that with a quick line about how ****ty the hotel gym is. “The treadmill shakes too much at high speeds” is a fan favorite. The client is almost always impressed, unless he was actually at the gym.

The first meeting, and my third coffee of the day, starts at 9:00am. Four hours, three meetings, one ****ty investor lunch, and an unknown number of coffees later, we’re only halfway through with our day. Come 6:00pm it’s finally time to head to the airport. I’m ****ing exhausted, and I feel like ****. Here would seemingly end yet another tedious day of the roadshow.

I’m a really nervous flyer to begin with, and I am immediately reminded of the endless number of statistics that say flying private is substantially more dangerous than flying commercial. Not to mention all the anecdotal evidence running through my mind, thanks to The Discovery Channel and Aaliyah’s “Behind the Music.” We pack into the plane. There are six of us, two people from each bank, and two clients. Every seat on the plane is occupied. As exhausted as I am, I don’t think too much about it, and quickly try to settle into my seat ahead of the three-hour flight to our next city.

Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it’s percolating its way down into my lower intestine. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, and my internal clock comforts me with the knowledge that the timing of my future BM will be right around ten minutes after hotel check-in. After all, I haven’t taken a dump on a plane in about ten years, no reason to think that streak will end on a relatively short trip in a private plane. I try and fight through it, having mastered Cosmo Cramer-like skills for being able to push it back for hours and sometimes days at a time.

I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn’t more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to **** my pants. “Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five” I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can’t afford to lose.

On a plane like this, the flight attendant isn’t really as much an attendant as someone who keeps the pilots company. Trying not to draw attention to myself, I signal to her and she heads toward me. I start to think about insurance, had I worn boxers or boxer-briefs? I had no ****ing clue.

“Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don’t see a door?” I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer bottle and shoved it up my ass. She looks at me, bemused, and says, “Well, we don’t really have one per se.” At this point she reads my mind, or just couldn’t miss the fact that I looked like Alec Baldwin after a 3-day coke binge. She continues, “Technically, we have one, but it’s really just for emergencies. Don’t worry, we’re landing shortly anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency,” I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, “There. The toilet is there.” For a brief instant relief passes over my face. She continues, “If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it’s under there. There’s a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that’s it.” At this point, I was committed. She had just lit the dynamite and the mineshaft was set to blow.

I turn to look where she is pointing and I get the urge to cry. I do cry, but my face is so tightly clenched it makes no difference. The “toilet” seat is occupied by the CFO, i.e. our ****ing client. Our ****ing female ****ing client!

Up to this point, nobody has observed my struggle or my exchange with the flight attendant. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” That’s all I can say as I limp toward her like Quasimodo impersonating a penguin, and begin my explanation. Of course, as soon as my competitors see me talking to the CFO, they all perk up to find out what the hell I’m doing.

Given my jovial nature and fun-loving attitude thus far on the roadshow, almost everybody thinks I’m joking. She, however, knows right away that I am anything but and jumps up, moving to the middle where I had been sitting. I now had to remove the seat top – no easy task when you can barely stand upright, are getting tossed around like hoodrat at a block party, and are fighting against a gastrointestinal Mt. Vesuvius.

I manage to peel back the leather seat top to find a rather luxurious looking commode, with a nice cherry or walnut frame. It had obviously never been used, ever. Why this moment of clarity came to me, I do not know. Perhaps it was the realization that I was going to take this toilet’s virginity with a fury and savagery that was an abomination to its delicate craftsmanship and quality. I imagined some poor Italian carpenter weeping over the violently soiled remains of his once beautiful creation. The lament lasted only a second as I was quickly back to concentrating on the tiny muscle that stood between me and molten hot lava.

I reach down and pull up the privacy screens, with only seconds to spare before I erupt. It’s an alka-seltzer bomb, nothing but air and liquid spraying out in all directions – a Jackson Pollock masterpiece. The pressure is now reversed. I feel like I’m going to have a stroke, I push so hard to end the relief, the tormented sublime relief.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.” My apologies do nothing to drown out the heinous noises that seem to carry on and reverberate throughout the small cabin indefinitely. If that’s not bad enough, I have one more major problem. The privacy screen stops right around shoulder level. I am sitting there, a disembodied head, in the back of the plane, on a bucking bronco for a toilet, all while looking my colleagues, competitors, and clients directly in the eyes. “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!” briefly comes to mind.

I literally could reach out with my left hand and rest it on the shoulder of the person adjacent to me. It was virtually impossible for him, or any of the others, and by others I mean high profile business partners and clients, to avert their eyes. They squirm and try not to look, inclined to do their best to carry on and pretend as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening, that they weren’t sharing a stall with some guy crapping his intestines out. Releasing smelly, sweaty, shame at 100 feet per second.

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry” is all the ashamed disembodied head can say…over and over again. Not that it mattered.

For more entertaining banter follow @GSElevator on twitter and check out this column for some classic material.


Read more at http://totalfratmove.com/782530#ZBVQS0LzvoMwhq3f.99

[Fishooked]

Originally Posted by 1greenNUT

Holding cell, immediately following snorting all the coke as you're getting pulled over.

So far I think this puts you in the lead.

[freestater]

Originally Posted by 1greenNUT

Holding cell, immediately following snorting all the coke as you're getting pulled over.

Coke is the quickest laxative ever.

[32green]

Originally Posted by Jets Things

I've dropped heat on a plane before and found it humiliating to walk past those waiting to use the bathroom after I fouled it.

You have to have a friend start banging on the cockpit door yelling in arabic right as you exit.

You'll be an afterthought.


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