Today's story is about poop, because I know you sick bastards love poop stories the most.
A lot of you don't know, but I used to work with some special education students. It was not a fun job, but it wasn't because of the students. It was the teachers I worked with. They were double crossing, back biting little rumor spreaders, and they hid it all under the guise of being exuberant, bible thumpin, pray over the kids everyday and speak in some tongues and try to see who can "outpray" the other others Pentecostals.
The schedule worked on a rotation. Each day, each person would get a rather tough kid to deal with, and a relatively easy kid to deal with. You did things like take them to lunch, get them ready for naps, play games with them, annnnnnnnnnd...........bathroom time.
If I told you to guess my least favorite time, it wouldn't take very long before one of you raised your hand and said, "Mr. Sloat? I think it's bathroom time."
And then I'd put a gold star next to your name, pat you on the back, and send a report card home to your parents telling them that you liked to participate in class.
One day, we all smelled something.
That's right. THAT something.
We had a shitter. A search was made around the room, and come to find out, the shitter was MINE.
He hadn't just taken a normal sized dump in his pants, he had something the texture and color of really loose chocolate gravy running all the way down his legs, into his shoes, and into a sort of poop puddle around him.
I told him not to move as I e Coli proofed myself. Gloves, mask, the works.
Luckily the kid kept a spare set of clothes with him at all times. I walked him to the bathroom, sat him down on the toilet, told him to finish up, and I started working on cleanup. A couple minutes later, I was done, I walked back in the bathroom, had him get up, observed that there was NOTHING in the toilet, and started cleaning up the kid.
I got him all cleaned up, and we put his new, clean and fresh pair of whitey tighties on. As I stood there, looking at his clothes trying to figure out how best to get him dressed, I see it.
A little tendril of brown winding it's way down his leg like a muddy tributary finding it's way towards a river.
Then another tendril.
Then the assplosion.
Folks, shit went EVERYWHERE. I had no idea this could come from such a little kid. I was dancing around in the bathroom, trying to dodge little shit tributaries, and cursing the name of the person who decided that the bathroom floor should run DOWNFUCKINGHILL.
In the end, his mother was called.
But not before the ladies told me that I had to clean him again, dress him again, and clean and sanitize this bathroom, which looked like a damn crime scene, only brown instead of red. Shit was in every last corner of that room. I was in there, and I don't know how I didn't get shit on me.
Cleaning that up was one of the most humbling experiences of my life, and I'll never forget it. And the whole time I was doing it, each lady would take a turn walking by the bathroom, cluck her tongue, and say, "Oh this ain't nothin. This one time, I had a kid shit from the CEILING."
I would call them all kinds of names in this post, but one of them is dead. The sad thing is, out of all three of them, she was the kindest and the least bitchy.
There you go, folks. The story of how I cleaned up the Mississippi river of shit storms.