February was a good time to be the Gross Jar. After absorbing the full load of last month's ingredient and being returned to the windowsill, the jar's contents settled into layers and quickly froze, providing a clear cross-section of its constituent parts and looking not unlike the fetal pig from high-school bio following a rigorous shaking.
While the freezing may have killed off most of the bacteria helping the jar on its way to utter putrescence, it did preserve the composition of the pinkish stew exactly as it was left and reduce the stench to about a tenth of its room temperature strength (still fucking awful).
Unfortunately, though, to add this month's much-ballyhooed dump to the mix, the gross jar had to be thawed. The morning of its augmentation it was moved to the corner bathroom and covered with mailbags, through which its stink nevertheless induced violent retching from the girls on the opposite side of the office.
We had chosen as our defecator one of the interns, the regular bottom in the ad department's intraoffice rape "games" and a notorious clogger of his toilet at home ("Both the reason for and result of never shitting in public," he explained). He had spent the previous day adhering to a strict dietary regimen of cheese-and-egg sandwiches, beer, and coffee.
Though it marked a departure from the methodology of the first two deposits, we allowed our dumper to drop his load in an old coffee can and just pour it into the jar so as to ensure the safe transfer of the whole turd and forestall possible liability in whatever ungodly diseases of the taint and scrotum would result from the invariable splashback of molten-chicken-jizz-blood-water.
After a catalytic cigarette, the intern entered the bathroom, and following 20 minutes of pitiful, dovelike groaning capped by a nauseating plop, he returned the proud parent of a craggy fist-size turd, resting just below the surface of the liquid on a bed of decomposing meat.
"I felt like I was in the Rape of Nanking squatting over that fucking can," he reported, "I've never been so grossed out I physically couldn't shit. I literally had to push down on my stomach to convince my ass to let it out."
While the brine immediately surrounding it has turned a dark brown in the four days since it was shat, the turd remains almost completely intact, orbited by a couple flecks of flaky dung. "I didn't drink any water for a day leading up to it, so it should be pretty solid for a while."
VICE STAFF
