It wouldn't be a problem if the toilet was one of those castrated, low-power flushers that can barely handle urine much less a dump but this baby was rigged high-pressure. We're talking whitewater class V. Before I could respond the backsplash soaked the back of my shirt, not to mention all visible body parts within spraying distance.

You could say I was red-cheeked with embarassment in more ways than one. Luckily I was able to dress and look like I was serious sweater while sneaking out of the building into the blast furnace mid day sun to dry off. Granted there was a lingering odor but I simply explained with "Cafeteria!" and people understood.

But lesson learned. I'll have to either take a number for the handicapped stall or sneak up to the Executives washroom.