Psycho Pooper

**In the process of writing these poo stories, I realized there was a plethora of them. It was very difficult to limit myself and choose which ones to share, but I will end with this one and lose the subject for a while, as promised.**

I was warned and failed to heed. I gathered my things to leave for the evening.

“If you don’t listen to what I say, you don’t know what you will find in your garbage can in the morning!” was threatened.

I didn’t pay attention. I was angry and walked away.

I returned to work the next morning, still skittish from yesterday’s conflict.

I had brought a muffin and some coffee for breakfast. When I was through eating, I went to toss my muffin wrapper into the wastebasket. I peered down to notice there wasn’t a liner. Simple enough, I knew where they were kept and went to retrieve one.

Along the way, I stopped to talk to a co-worker about lunch plans. It was a beautiful day and we were going to bring sandwiches to the lake.

I found a wastebasket liner and made my way back. I opened and fluffed the mini plastic bag and went to put it in its place.

As I bent down over the wastebasket, I was horrified at what I saw.


Someone had put some in there and smeared it around with some paper that was left in there as well. I tried for a minute to make sense of the situation, source the reason behind it, but memories of the evening before’s threat crept back into my mind.

I wanted to start screaming, “Poo! Poo!” and let the whole office know about the atrocity, but I didn’t. I would handle this differently.

I had recently brought up concerns about the person that I suspected left the poop to my boss, and was instructed to ignore this person. Besides, there was no one to report the Psycho Pooper to, my boss was on a 14 day Alaskan Cruise.

I remembered spotting plastic gloves next to where I found the waste basket liner. I would use a pair of those, clean the mess quietly, and carry on with my day as if nothing happened.

Psycho Pooper wanted to play mind games and I was determined not to let P.P. win.

Though the gloves provided adequate protection, I was startled by the fact that I could feel the feces were still warm. I ended up throwing the waste receptacle away entirely, since I couldn’t bring myself to clean it up.

I went on about my day as if nothing happened and kept the whole incident to myself.

Then poo started showing up at my home (on my front-step and on my back-step). They were neatly placed on pieces of newspaper and positioned in front of my door and walkway.

I tried to ignore those as well. It wasn’t easy, but somehow I managed to keep my composure.

I did however, begin to worry about what might be going on in Psycho Pooper’s head. If P.P. was able to take revenge with human excrement, I wondered what else P.P. would be capable of doing.

Then one day, it finally got to me. Again, I had spotted something at the bottom of my wastebasket. It wasn’t poop this time, but an article of clothing. Suspicious, I took a pencil out to lift it from the receptacle. I dangled it in confusion for a second before I realized it was a big pair of women’s panties.

Enough was enough, my boss was back and it was time to tell.

My boss did not believe one word I said. She accused me of making the whole thing up. I was fired.

A few months later, I would receive a letter from my former place of work. It wasn’t an apology, like I was hoping, but information about the reason behind the poo and the panties found in my receptacle. 

Apparently, our office space was being used as a whorehouse after hours. A homeless man would find his way inside and invite prostitutes to join him. The letter said these acts were caught on tape.

If I were homeless, or a prostitute (God forbid it would ever come to that), I would most certainly choose to use the toilet and all its amenities, rather than a  flimsy garbage can, and there were many nice facilities to choose from all around the office.

I questioned the underwear too. Maybe the prostitute had an extra pair on hand, and decided to toss her raunchy ones aside, and in my garbage can purely by chance?

But then how could anyone explain the warmth of the feces in my receptacle, not there one minute and then there the next?

And what about the poo on my doorstep? 

There is at least one person out there in the world who has the answers to all these questions.

I have a friend who told me that people leave poop down random isles at the place she works at. There’s also another place (I won’t say out of consideration for the institution) I’ve found poop at… in the water fountain, twice!

I began to wonder if leaving poop in random places might be connected to a disease or mental behavior. I asked my friend who’s a psychologist and social worker if she knew what this might be.

She defended these poopers immediately with, “Some people are homeless and don’t have anywhere to go because no one will let them use their facilities.”

I had never thought about that. Her answer made me feel sorry for the Psycho Poopers of the world.

Then I asked what she thought about the poop in my garbage can and on my doorstep. Her answer again cleared up my questions to this mystery.

She explained, “There are people who aren’t understood. Every human wants attention, and this is their way of calling it to themselves. Whatever happened to these poopers must have been very hurtful and made them sick…mentally sick!”

I thought about the Psycho Pooper who pooed in my wastebasket. In all honesty, before P.P. unraveled, P.P. had stolen my heart the instant I met P.P.

P.P. was suffering from a case of unrequited love. P.P. had been abused as a child and now as an adult. P.P. was rejected by our work team, who had all warned me to stay away from P.P. P.P. was an outcast. Instead of following everyone’s lead (like I should have), I took P.P.’s side. P.P. and I spent an evening discussing P.P.’s hardship at an ice cream shop after our very first day working together. It was the beginning of both a beautiful and freaky sequence of experiences that would surround our friendship while it lasted.

Once in a while, I hear about P.P.’s where-abouts and what P.P is up to. Life hasn’t been easy for this individual.

Now, whenever I see even a glimmer of P.P. in anyone I meet, I run for the hills instead of getting ice cream with them.

You live, you learn.

I wish the best for P.P. and all the Psycho Poopers out there.

I’d like to leave this post with a quote from a song by one of my most favorite musical artist, David Byrne. It’s from the album Uh-Oh and the song is titled, “THE COWBOY MAMBO (HEY LOOKIT ME NOW)”.

Green grass grows around the backyard shithouse
That is where the sweetest flowers bloom
We are the flowers growin’ in God’s garden
And that is why he spreads the shit around


Hey lookit us now!

Who do you think pooped in my garbage can, the homeless man, or P.P.?

About clutterheart

You don't know me, but you will.
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2 Responses to Psycho Pooper

  1. Laurie says:

    OMG, I have so much to say:
    1. Anyone over the age of five – no, make that three – who poops in or on other people’s stuff is seriously messed up and potentially very dangerous. Don’t excuse the behavior with “well, they’re just sick,” as the social worker did. Feeling sorry for them and trying to be the one person in the office who befriends them does not work. Women have been found in dumpsters for trying to help out a social outcast.
    2. To say that the waste basket poop could be from a homeless person who just doesn’t have anywhere else to go is an insult to homeless people everywhere. There are certainly businesses who will deny them access to facilities, but any government office or library would let them in. Churches would also be a help. Many homeless are addicts or severely mentally ill and should be in a care facility, but when the laws about involuntary commitment changed, the alternative was for them to sleep on the street. The problem is that as a society, we do not get these people into a facility for their own safety and the safety of others. It’s NOT that we just aren’t understanding enough.
    3. The fact that poop showed up on your doorstep is just plain scary. I hope you alerted the police and filled them in on the whole story.
    4. The letter from your former employer seems like a set-up to me. As you said, a homeless person would probably use the indoor facilities and not the waste basket if he had gone to the trouble of getting in the building. My theory is that your employer knows who the culprit is and is worried you might sue them for not getting him out of the workplace and instead put you and others at risk. I’d check into that too.
    5. No one can save the world. It makes us feel good to befriend the friendless, but if that person is mentally ill, it only puts us in danger. Work to help the homeless and mentally ill through a reputable agency or a church, not on your own. You have to put your own safety first! It’s not selfish, it’s smart!


    • Yes Laurie, I look over my shoulder every day since this incident. The doorstep and garbage pail “offerings” are documented with the police, although I lived in a building with 2 other individuals, and the police let me know that there was no way to prove that the “offerings” left for me. The “homeless man theory” seemed to me were put into place so that others would not be alarmed, but I could be wrong, I never saw the tapes, so who knows. You put into context the feelings I held up until speaking with the social worker. I’ve realized, along with not being friends with people who are insane, that I am not a social worker, nor do I have what it takes to be one. At one point in my life, I craved being friends with the people on the outskirts, not to save them, but simply because they felt more at home to me than people in the in-skirts. As soon as they started biting me, I was quick to realize why they were on the outskirts, and now remain content, mellow and happy with the crazies on the in-skirts. Hopefully I won’t end up in a dumpster.


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