It was a brisk morning in the fall of 2001. My first semester in high school, and an all boys high school at that (not my decision, naturally I was none too pleased), this place was crawling with douchebags. Jocks and stoners with nothing in between, the cliche couldn’t have been more applicable. Sometime during the first month or so i started the habit of saving my bowel movements until school hours so i could have a legitimate excuse to leave class for 10 or so minutes each day.
During my second period math class, i felt the call of nature. I made my way down the checkered tile corridor flanked by towering green lockers, a taunting reminder to my five-foot-nothing self that i had four long years ahead. I ducked into the men’s room, picked the middle stall and got down to business.
After a few minutes i had exhausted my fecal supply and was delaying my return to class any way possible, when the door burst open and heavy footsteps echoed throughout the bathroom. Naturally I wanted to wait until he left to emerge, but as i sat on the porcelin 
throne he closed in on my stall and began pacing back and forth.
“Hey, what’s up? What are you, frosh?”
Startled, i paused for a moment, then responded that I was indeed a “frosh.”
Disregarding my question entirely, the intruder went on to ask me which teachers i had, and told me exactly what he thought of them.
“Mrs. Albin is a total c*nt…so what kinda situation do you have goin on in there?”
Nervous that he was referring to my not fully developed package, I asked what exactly he meant.
“You put toilet paper on the seat right? Did you Catcher’s Mitt?”
At this point, I was completely lost. I assured him that I had laid toilet paper on the seat, and proceeded to ask what a “Catcher’s Mitt” was.
“Seriously? You layer toilet paper on the surface of the toilet water, and it closes over the turd like a catcher’s mitt. No splashback.”
My entire world was shattered. I couldn’t believe that I had never thought of it! The stranger headed towards the door.
“See ya ’round, frosh.”
I asked him what his name was. A moment passed, and he finally responded just before the door swung shut.
“They call me the Bathroom Bandit.”
That was the only time I encountered the Bathroom Bandit. No one believed my story, so I kept the Catcher’s Mitt to myself. It worked every time without fail, and never again have i had to clench my sphincter in fear of the dreaded splashback. Now, almost ten years later, it is time to share. Farewell, my friends, and may the Mitt be with you.
