A violent attack on your personal space is unfolding in your office’s restroom, as your tactless boor of a colleague is talking at you while you’re both taking a dump.
Assailed by rounds of completely misplaced conversation, you give monotone, one-word answers in the hopes of ending this nightmare. But findings at the scene show that she’s fucking dense. Armed with stupidity, your coworker is now griping about the short timeline she's been given for her project, the spurts from her rapid-fire shitting punctuating every terrible word. The echo of sharts coating the bowl is deafening. Thoughts of brown, creamy ringlets unfurling gently from your ass are now irretrievable. Your colon sags under the weight of your veritable dung pile, and yet you know a B.M. shall not be. Paralyzed from the sphincter down, your hopes of excretion have come to a tragic end.
At press time, your boundaries are in critical condition, with recovery hinging on your going home to lay a meaty chud during lunch break.
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