“True Story: Got Kicked Out of Brunch then Defecated in Clogged Toilet”
by: Spork
It was hot. I was broke. It was brunch.
To clarify, it was a brunch *spot*. I never planned on ordering any food. Instead, I brought two Tupperware of pasta salad, bamboo utensils, and dressing in an old Nutella container to share with my friend.
Looking back, I don’t know why I thought this would work. But let’s just say I was optimistic.
I enter the minimalisticly designed restaurant to find my friend seated in the back corner, mulling over a, by now, watered down iced latte. She thought if we sat in the back nothing bad would happen. And nothing bad did happen. Yet.
We exchange hello’s, it’s-been-too-long’s, what-kind-of-milk-did-you-get-in-your-latte’s, the basic pleasantries. Then, I place my hefty lunchbox, stacked to the brim with glass Tuppers, on the table. A Tupper of pasta for her. A Tupper of pasta for me. And communal dressing. It was a beautiful set up. A valiant effort at expressing my love language of gift giving.
And, it was damn good salad.
Al dente fusilli with carrots & cucumbers for crunch, tomatoes & bell peppers for acidity, cilantro for freshness, and craisins for a touch of sweetness.
She calls it the best meal she ever had.
We eat two forkfuls. Moments later, a waitress sneaks up, and in the least intimidating voice announces to us, “um…we don’t allow outside food in here.”
We awkwardly finish chewing our third bite, and hastily pack my lunchbox.
So yes, we were kicked out of a brunch spot. And yes, it was my fault. However, just this rookie mistake wouldn’t be an article worthy story. What makes this story worth immortalizing, is that we came back the next day. No Tupperware this time.
The hostess didn’t smile when we walked in. It couldn’t be the same woman, we agreed, trying to calm our paranoia. It’s not a criminal offence to bring pasta salad into an overpriced brunch spot, right?
So, all goes smoothly. We drink some coffee, watch some stand-up on YouTube, talk about our incredibly eventful summers. I gently pause the conversation as a need to use the restroom arises.
All goes smoothly. I pee, I poop, I stand up. The toilet wouldn’t flush.
This wasn’t my first clogged toilet rodeo; I knew I had to confront the hostess to inform her of the faulty toilet. Only one thing scared me. After I told her, she would walk in, and see my solid clumps of brown excrement floating in the stagnant yellow water. That image is not one I would like a stranger to see. So as any reasonable person would conclude, I had one option.
I tear an especially long piece of toilet paper, place it on my hand as a protective barrier, dip my hand into the toilet water, scoop out my shit and plop it into the adjacent trashcan.
I told the hostess the toilet was clogged.
I told my friend what I had done.
We never came back again.
To clarify, it was a brunch *spot*. I never planned on ordering any food. Instead, I brought two Tupperware of pasta salad, bamboo utensils, and dressing in an old Nutella container to share with my friend.
Looking back, I don’t know why I thought this would work. But let’s just say I was optimistic.
I enter the minimalisticly designed restaurant to find my friend seated in the back corner, mulling over a, by now, watered down iced latte. She thought if we sat in the back nothing bad would happen. And nothing bad did happen. Yet.
We exchange hello’s, it’s-been-too-long’s, what-kind-of-milk-did-you-get-in-your-latte’s, the basic pleasantries. Then, I place my hefty lunchbox, stacked to the brim with glass Tuppers, on the table. A Tupper of pasta for her. A Tupper of pasta for me. And communal dressing. It was a beautiful set up. A valiant effort at expressing my love language of gift giving.
And, it was damn good salad.
Al dente fusilli with carrots & cucumbers for crunch, tomatoes & bell peppers for acidity, cilantro for freshness, and craisins for a touch of sweetness.
She calls it the best meal she ever had.
We eat two forkfuls. Moments later, a waitress sneaks up, and in the least intimidating voice announces to us, “um…we don’t allow outside food in here.”
We awkwardly finish chewing our third bite, and hastily pack my lunchbox.
So yes, we were kicked out of a brunch spot. And yes, it was my fault. However, just this rookie mistake wouldn’t be an article worthy story. What makes this story worth immortalizing, is that we came back the next day. No Tupperware this time.
The hostess didn’t smile when we walked in. It couldn’t be the same woman, we agreed, trying to calm our paranoia. It’s not a criminal offence to bring pasta salad into an overpriced brunch spot, right?
So, all goes smoothly. We drink some coffee, watch some stand-up on YouTube, talk about our incredibly eventful summers. I gently pause the conversation as a need to use the restroom arises.
All goes smoothly. I pee, I poop, I stand up. The toilet wouldn’t flush.
This wasn’t my first clogged toilet rodeo; I knew I had to confront the hostess to inform her of the faulty toilet. Only one thing scared me. After I told her, she would walk in, and see my solid clumps of brown excrement floating in the stagnant yellow water. That image is not one I would like a stranger to see. So as any reasonable person would conclude, I had one option.
I tear an especially long piece of toilet paper, place it on my hand as a protective barrier, dip my hand into the toilet water, scoop out my shit and plop it into the adjacent trashcan.
I told the hostess the toilet was clogged.
I told my friend what I had done.
We never came back again.
