The Men's Room Mentalist

An analyst is always analyzing.  A constant surveyor of surroundings.  Always cognizant of the people and objects within the immediate area and beyond.  Analytical abilities can't be shut off and they can't be left behind.  They are a gift and a curse.

Analytical thinking is what I do.  It's my job.  I'm an analyst.  And, as so often occurs with any career, my role as an analyst has come to define me.  Analytical thinking has become a trait characteristic.  Perpetual analysis of all situations impacts my day-to-day living.   It has become my gift and my curse.

The men's restroom is a regular haunt.  I log long hours in pursuit of perfecting my art, mastering my craft, and warming porcelain.  And my analysis isn't checked at the door.

Sights.  Sounds.  Smells.  The men's room is ripe with them.  The sensory details are clues to visitors past and present and the level of relief they've achieved.  My men's room analysis has become a game of mystery.  Either in the stall or at the urinal, I'll put my analytical abilities to the test by deducing whatever I can about the man on the can.  I'm a detective piecing together a shitty crime and using all senses to catch the defecating culprit.  I am the Patrick Jane of the stalls.  I am the men's room mentalist.

Like Jane, I open my mind and let the clues speak to me.  It could be as simple as a clearing of the throat or their gait to the stall.  It could be as complex as the plops of turd water entry coupled with TP sheet count guesstimation via the squeaky dispenser.  It could be the rustle of a newspaper.  It could be a pre-dump ritual.  It could be the smell.

It could be any of these things or any multitude of other sensory data that pours in.

With keen observation and astute analysis, I've successfully identified numerous defecating regulars.  There's the man that wipes his ass like he's scraping a lasagna dish with a scouring pad.  There's the man notorious for taking the WSJ on a joyride and subsequently returning it to the break room post dump.  There are at least two men with weak streams leading to the conclusion they could possibly own an enlarged prostate.  There's the man with a distinctive diet leading to a unique and potent smell.

All of these men have been ID'd by the men's room mentalist.

But every good detective story has a super villain.  In CBS's The Mentalist, Patrick Jane matches wits with a sinister, highly intelligent and equally elusive, serial killer responsible for murdering Jane's family.  In the men's room, ShavedGolf matches wits with a stinky, highly fiber-fed and equally flatulent, shotgun shitter responsible for repeatedly destroying the handicap stall.

The shotgun shitter's BM MO is well documented.  He strikes during late morning and early afternoon.  He commits his crime about once a week, on average, giving reason to believe he is irregular.  His calling card is distinctive: caked shit sprayed like a shotgun blast on the back of the toilet bowl.  Because the BM hits with obvious force, under great duress and pressure, we can deduce the man has irritable bowel syndrome.

One thing is clear: the shotgun shitter has no remorse.  He cares little about the porcelain he destroys and has complete disregard for his fellow man.  Rest assured that I, the men's room mentalist, will eventually expose this shotgun shitter and bring him to justice for his bathroom crimes.  It's only a matter of time before he slips up, makes a mistake, and allows this analyst to crack his serial pooping.

The poo clues are everywhere.  Are you paying attention?

xoxo,
ShavedGolf