They don't pay me enough for this

I like to think that I am a decent person. I do the right thing whenever I can, but some days it isn't very fun. In fact, some days it is down right nasty. Like yesterday, for example. (If you do not like nasty things, I advise you not to continue reading.) Through an unforseen series of events, namely customers and work, I was not able to use the facilities down the hall right at the most opportune moment. I had to wait longer to relieve myself than was strictly comfortable. When finaly the moment had come to shuffle down the hall, I attempted to do so without looking too much like my innards were cramping or my bladder about to burst. After finally making it the heavenly lavatory down the hall I found that someone had already beaten me there. Or rather, almost. It (I refuse to acknowledge this persons humanity) had found the bathroom, rightly enough, yet had not quite completely found the commode before venting its bowels all over the floor. Worse yet, was the fact that in leaving the john, this sorry person stepped in their own foulness and trod human filth into the tiles over a far larger area than one might expect to cover when leaving a room. Fortunately they had left the seat up (I really needed to go) so I stepped over the mess quite carefully and discovered that I could not properly utilise the facilities due to the fact that my revolting friend had clogged the toilet with whatever ended up in the bowl. Judjing by what was on the floor, it couldn't have been much. Nothing more would fit without overflow. In despiration, I grabbed the plunger and righted one aspect of this sickening scenario. After finding relief I went to find the mop. I found the mop handle. The mop end was gone. There was no way I could leave this behind and still respect myself, though the urge to simply walk away was certainly there. I found a large bottle of Lysol and grabbed a very (very) large handfull of paper towels and went to work. Due to the fact that the towels were now covered in what had to have been the crowning defecation of this things (persons?) life, I thought the pot would be the best place to dispose of them. Ignoring the sign that advises against putting paper towels in the john, I flushed them away, immediately clogging it again. Again with the handy Tralfamadorian. Eventually I was satisfied with the cleanliness of the floor and moved on to the splashes on the porcelain. Being a considerate gentleman, I lowered the seat only to find that the person (creature of darknesse) had left their mark all over that too. So I cleaned that also. Remembering that I could not flush the paper towels, it went into the can. The can of course, could not remain, so I emptied it into the dumpster. When I (finally) returned to my workshop I smelled smoke. Not just smoke, but wicked, nasty, toxic, electrical, scorched metal smoke. One of the florescent light ballasts up in the loft had just rather spectacularly failed, throwing smoking oily crud out, where it proceeded to short out the electrical system it was tied to. My shop (and water closet) still stink.