The Poo Whose Name Shall Never Be Spoken
In an attempt to shatter the barrier of silence surrounding the inevitable-but-taboo bowel movement at one's place of employment, Work magazine gives an anecdotal account:
Setting: A downtown New York arts organization where (when designer jeans are wrapped at the ankles of the highly fashionable) excrement is expected to come out smelling like roses.
Scenario: One infamous morning the patrons of the men s bathroom were greeted with a mess. Overnight, some monster had taken the liberty of using one stall as a crap shanty. Shit everywhere. Sprayed on the seat. Lined on the walls. It was caked on the door. I wasn t sure whether to be grossed out, or amazed by the athletic feat required to defecate across a 360-degree surface. Shock quickly manifested into curiosity as we tried to figure out who could have done this.
Seriously: For once, this shitstorm (yuk yuk) wasn't at Condé Nast, and we're dying to know where this filthiness went down. 'Fess up, and then you can go back to repressing your early-morning poopy talk.
