Computerpoo - A story by Anina

Being that it was Monday, I arrived at work bright and oh, two minutes before I had to be teaching my C++ programming class. I had no coffee that morning, and staggered to my desk on autopilot to begin setting up. All was going well at that point, students arrived, class began, things were swell. Had a few minor interruptions in the coding, but nothing unusual for a Monday until I heard 'What is this on my shoe?'

As the unlucky stepper hobbled off to the bathroom not wanting to spread the mess but desperately needing to clean the unidentified goop off her shoe, the room began to take on a rather ripe and overwhelming stench. I thought that no, it couldn't be, not in here, not in the computer lab, it couldn't possibly be what I think it is.

Armed with paper towels, water, and lots of anti-bacterial soap, I was forced to approach the mass of semi-solid, dijon mustard colored stink on the floor of my beautiful computer lab. The janitorial staff would not arrive for another four hours, so this was mine to deal with. As I began to sink into hypoxia due to the air pollution which got more and more dense the closer I got to it, I knew for sure that it was.

Yep. It was shit. Not the piles of metaphorical shit that plague the life of every computer engineer and every college instructor in the world. Nope. Not this Monday. With many apologies to my English professors who over the years cautioned me against using the word 'literally' far too much, it literally was a pile of shit.

I don't know what manner of beast eminated that foul smelling dollop of turd, or how they got it to be exactly the consistency of whipped mashed potatoes and the exact color that Bob Ross would've called 'Burnt Umber' on The Joy of Painting, but by god it was. I have not smelled anything so foul, not even when living in college dorms with large numbers of college guys who were boisterously proud of the fact that they had raided the bathroom on my floor and produced their ruminating odorous Beer Shits for our olfactory enjoyment on Sunday mornings.

I do not want to know who or what left that festering pile of squishy poo there beside the printer on the shiny white tile, but I hope they see a doctor soon. For something has surely crawled its way up their rectum and died in their intestines. Judging by the gut-curdling eminations of olfactory hell coming from that plop of turd, I can only assume that whatever died in there did so long ago.

I have said on occasion that I have a shitty job, and if this is the universe's karmic way of refusing to let me be a liar, I will never again utter that sentence in any form. Please, please, whatever or whoever's ass that amorphous thing came from, stay out of my lab.

I'm not going to deal with your shit anymore.