The Brown Shoe Law Firm
It ain’t easy working for one of the most prestigious law firms in the world. It ain’t easy to conciliate your personal and professional life; but certainly, it ain’t easy either to conciliate the demands of a 70-hour work week with a schedule of bowel movements that tends to go from five day constipation stints to sudden outbursts of near-liquid diarrhea.
That day we had been working on a huge litigation. When I say huge, I say huge: the kind of acrimonious multijurisdictional, all-out, high stake showdown between blue-chip companies that respect neither weekends, nor bank holidays, nor your best friend’s wedding. Gradually, my diet of cold cut sandwiches from the conference room, frozen bacon quiche, ginger beer, cheap curry, and Frito’s from the vending machine was taking a toll on my digestive system. I felt like I was carrying a huge butt plug of solidified feces inside me, riveted against my intestines’ lining, and ultimately resolved not to abandon my body until the end of time. It wouldn’t even let me sleep properly at night; yet the wheels of the law firm could not stop turning and, alas, I could not afford the luxury of going to the WC for a bit of non-billable quality time.
That night, I arrived home after a 12-hour day at the office. My shirt was sweaty, my was suit rumpled, and my breath was stinky after a disgusting succession of against-the-clock drafting of motions, conference calls with obnoxious Ivy League kids (who made fun of the inexplicable intricacies of our local procedural law), and vicious fights with superiors. I poured myself a couple ounces of Scotch, lay on my bed, and thought that I could just go to sleep without dinner. Yet something told me that my body needed some precious nutrients. Thus after realizing that my fridge looked more desolate than an Ethiopian convenience store, I gathered all the strength I could and carried my tired body--and all the feces it contained--to a Turkish restaurant around the corner, where I order a “Döner Kebab." If some of you Poop Reporters haven’t heard of this, let me describe it for you: A Döner Kebab is an addictive Anatolian flatbread sandwich made with discarded meat cuts, salad, and copious amounts of spicy, garlicky sauce, a food that has been made popular by immigrants across Europe. The low quality of the ingredients and the dubious hygienic standards of the establishments that serve it invariably guarantees heightened anal activity.
Around midnight, while I was eating, my Blackberry rang. Some Korean-American, Yale-educated chump from the L.A. office of an infamously elitist U.S. firm wanted me to check some amendments to their ultra-urgent Affidavit on Spanish Law on Enforceability of Motion to Quash Subpoena for Disclosure of Random Bullshit. I decided to wake up early and get to the office to review the document right before dawn on the American East Coast; it was the only way of getting it done in time.
The next day, as soon as I hit the office, I started punching on the keyboard, making my own amendments on the Affidavit on Spanish Law on Enforceability of Motion to Quash Subpoena for Disclosure of Random Bullshit, while my senior colleague kept commenting how disastrously bad my previous work on the Affidavit on Spanish Law on Enforceability of Motion to Quash Subpoena for Disclosure of Random Bullshit had been.
Yet the Döner Kebab was already playing its magic. The creature inside me knocked on my inner sphincter with what seemed to be a fist covered with glass shards or rusty razor blades. Under the astonished look my colleague, I ran to the toilet, locked myself in the cubicle, and started to expel the fecal plug that had been blocking my asshole for almost five days. As sweat started to drip, I stripped naked, neatly leaving my suit on the cubicle’s floor. Finally the shit plug left my dunghole amidst thunderous farts. It was small, but rock hard. I thought that once the plug had been removed that the liquefied matter would fly out in quick bursts; I was wrong. Instead my bowel movements seemed to be slow waves of scorching shit with texture akin to chocolate pudding, flowing out like pus suppurating from an infected wound. Each movement was accompanied with excruciating pain and a cacophony of noises that sounded like ravenous wild pigs were fighting inside my tummy. My anus got hotter and hotter, and eventually burned like a racing car’s disc brakes after a 24-hour endurance race.
Thirty minutes later, I left the cubicle and rejoined my colleague. Another day began at one of the world’s brownest shoe law firms.