Potty-mouth

So yesterday, I stroll into the ladies' room on this, the second-highest floor of our office building (the one where all the top-level execs have their offices). Friend is at the sink washing up, we nod our "hey"s, and I go into a stall. Someone in the room is talking -- for a moment, I think she's just finishing up some small talk with my friend over the top of the stall door. But quickly, I come to realize -- she's on her cell phone, this Mystery Talker. She's holding a full-fledged conversation about some vacation plans (who's rooming with whom -- so in other words, not some emergency like she's on the horn with 911), with no intention of ending the call, as people come in and out of the room, and there are various flushings and bathroom noises going on. And Internets, as if this weren't bad enough, the Mystery Talker, it becomes apparent, is ... ah ... going number two. WHILE SHE TALKS. I mean, simultaneously. Not to put too fine a point on it, it's fairly obvious what's going on -- not just to us who are so unfortunate as to have chosen this moment to heed nature's call, but to the person on the other end of the line, if you get me.

I could. not. get out of there fast enough.

When I got back to my office, thoroughly traumatized, friend was already in there -- I see her from halfway down the hall, we make bugeyed faces at each other, and as soon as she shuts the door, we both give in to a fit of the howling fantods. The only coherent words for awhile were "What the FUCK!!" and "Who DOES that?!!!" "She was ... she was ... " "I KNOW!!!!" My officemates, two gents who say the rudest, most wrong things all day long (which is why I love them), were kinda grossed out, but not as skeeved as we were. (Dudes. Whaddya gonna do.) Auuuuuuggggh!

So I say again: What the FUCK? Who DOES that?