So I’m going into the stall, I’m going to “give” a—well, you know what. — 1 minute ago
And I’m doing my “business.” But see, when I walked in, there’s this soldier, in his new desert camou’s, A- whatever you call em’s. He’s on the cell phone. Here’s the scene, from my perspective in the stall:

(Someone sits in the stall next to me. Big macho work boots. Oh boy, I sense some chili grits and ham shit going down. My own bowels are working, only it’s kind of a messy liquid flatulation.)

Soldier’s voice: “Yeah, honey, I’m at Walmart. (Sound of work boots guy farting, shit splashing down).

Soldier’s voice: “I’m getting an oil change.” (My own shit splooshes, with an accompanying long gassy flabby fart. My stall neighbor flushes his tank).

(Soldier’s voice trails off, as he finally figures to take his conversation).

O.K. People. Wtf? I mean, you wanna have a little talk on the phone with your wife. But for the love of Pete! People! Take it somewhere ELSE! Where maybe you can enjoy the “intimacy” of your “chat” away from defacating strangers and flushing toilets.

Man, I left feeling that good “I’m empty and clean” feeling. Old chilli grits work boots was still at business. Maybe he’s shy of being caught listening to husband talk to wife during men’s ca ca break.