Paper Trained

Some stories are so awful they just have to be shared.

Our office manager in San Francisco, Brad, grew up in an East Bay suburb, and one Sunday he and his partner took BART out to visit the parents.

That evening, as they boarded the return train, Brad saw a discarded sports section and picked it up to peruse on the ride. Once they'd settled in, he opened the paper, which revealed a surprise insert: a load of diarrhea.

"I was wearing shorts, and it ran down my legs and into my shoes," Brad reported, noting: "It was warm, as if the guy had just done it. And there were sesame seeds, like he'd been eating a Big Mac or something."

"What did your boyfriend do?" I asked.

"He was rolling around, laughing hysterically."

Unfortunately, the train had just dipped under the bay, so the next station was some way off. And when they finally did emerge, it took a while to find an open restroom, given the day and hour.

My mother happened to be in town when Brad told the story, and when she came by the office at the end of the day, I delighted in repeating it. A few minutes later, as we stepped onto a BART train, the first thing we saw was a folded paper on an empty seat. With a nervous laugh, we moved along.