Beef Stew

What follows is a mostly true account of Friday March 5^th, 2011:

Due to my strict adherence to company policy I was not carrying my cell phone on the day I now call “Brown Friday”. This verbal description will have to suffice.

     Surely Leonardo Da Vinci painted some duds before unleashing the Last Supper on the world. Dear reader, the above photographs are the duds of our mysterious “Brown Bandit.” There are only a few unfortunate souls to have witnessed the Last Supper that the above named bandit unleashed upon the world. 

     In the course of my work day my life changed. At that point I was still a virgin to the world of fecal sabotage. I did not know that I was about to be deflowered in the harshest manner possible. I rounded the corner and a man was setting up a barrier. Being cursed by curiosity, I approached and while exchanging meaningless greetings with this unfortunate custodian I looked over his shoulder and into the single occupant women’s bathroom. (In no way does this imply that our bandit is of the female persuasion. Like I mentioned, this was a lockable bathroom…)

The toilet was overflowing. The hallway was flooded all the way out to the elevators. A flooding toilet isn’t so bad, but when I saw the chunky wet liquid pouring over the lip of the pot I immediately thought of a child throwing up beef stew. There were gagging men attempting to contain the mess. One had the unfortunate job of wading into the restroom, reaching behind the toilet, and shutting off the water valve. The tell-tale signs of our bandit were all there: Strewn toilet paper, streaks of brown sludge on the yellowing tiles, and things of that nature. Worst though were the little boats made of shit sailing in the water flowing from the bathroom.

One man was crossing himself and uttering prayers to Saint Juan Diego, another was weeping and taking the gulping breaths of one who is trying to breathe without using his nose, and the man to which I spoke was trying to show me wallet sized pictures of his family.

I tried to break away—my stomach was doing back flips—but before he let me go the man put a scrap of paper into my hand. His wife’s phone number. “Just in case. Tell her I love her, amigo.” He said before pulling on elbow-length rubber gloves.

This so called “Brown Bandit” must be caught in the act, and if you’ll pardon the pun, with his pants down. Soon after the Last Supper Da Vinci painted his masterpiece, the Mona Lisa. I pray that this shit mongering, fecal terrorist can be stopped before he unveils his Mona Lisa.