Did I ever tell you about the one in college we called “The Mad Pooper”? (Actually, we didn’t use the word “Pooper.” We used another word that better expressed our distaste for this individual).
It was during my freshman year of college. More often than not after a night of revelry and intoxication, which generally fell on a day that ended in “Y,” a phantom defacator would infiltrate our co-ed bathrooms and leave a calling card — or, more accurately, a bowel movement — right in the middle of the floor. Continue reading