A week and a half of agony. One catastrophic decision. A bathroom stall that became a crime scene.
So, this happened many years ago—back in high school.
I was sitting in class, and I wasn’t feeling well. I truly wish I were joking, but I’m not. I have an intestinal condition that causes frequent bowel movements—I won’t go into detail. But if I recall correctly, I hadn’t pooped for about a week and a half. Only urine. Nothing else.
It was awful. My stomach hurt so much.
I had a rule: never poop at school. Only at home. But that day… that day became the exception.
I told myself: “I’ll go to the restroom. It’ll be the biggest poo anyone has ever seen—but they won’t know who did it.”
I asked the teacher for the hall pass. She nodded. I walked out, trying to look casual. My gut was screaming.
I entered the restroom. Thank God—it was empty. I ran to the farthest stall, locked the door, squatted over the toilet, and lowered my pants.
Then I waited.
Nothing happened.
I strained. Harder. Thirty seconds of pure pressure. My face must have turned red.
Then—plop.
One came out. Followed by another.
The Moment Everything Changed
As soon as the feces hit the toilet water, the smell hit me immediately. It was disgusting. Unbearable. I knew, deep in my bones: there was no way this was going to flush.
But before I could even think about my next move, I heard the main door swing open.
Footsteps.
My heart dropped. All the way down to my nutsack. I was frozen.
A student entered the restroom, took two steps, and stopped.
“Oh my god… what the FUCK is that?!”
His voice echoed off the tiles. He didn’t even wait for an answer. He took the fastest piss of his life, zipped up, and fled.
Silence.
I sat there for several minutes, barely breathing. My stomach still hurt—but beneath the pain, there was also relief. A sick, guilty relief.
I never tried to flush. I knew it would clog. I didn’t want anyone to have the slightest suspicion that it was me.
Eventually, I walked back to class. The teacher glanced at the clock.
“You were gone a while,” she said.
I had to think fast. Really fast.
“I’m sorry, miss. I won’t lie to you—my friends stepped in, and we got caught up in a stupid discussion.”
She nodded. “At least you’re being honest. I admire that.”
Honest. If only she knew.
I returned to my desk and finished my work.
The Aftermath
By the end of the day, no one knew who had left that enormous, unflushable monument in the toilet.
I went home. Did the usual teenage stuff. Played video games. Did half my homework. Went to sleep.
The next morning, my first thought was: “I need to see if that thing is still there. And if the janitors have done anything about it.”
I walked into the restroom. Approached the stall.
The door was closed. A piece of paper was taped across it.
“OUT OF ORDER.”
The lid was shut. The crime scene was sealed.
I nearly died laughing. I had to clamp my mouth shut, force my face straight, and walk away like nothing had happened.
That toilet stayed broken for another month.
And no one ever knew who did it.
Until now.
This was, without a doubt, one of the strangest—but funniest—memories of my high school life.
