I can honestly say (from experience) that needing to shit in a job interview dramatically decreases your; (a) ability to perform, (b) interaction skills and (c) charm. Unless you’re an aspiring test dummy for Imodium, you really want to hope you haven’t got the shits (literally) when you roll into your potential future place of work. From an employers standpoint, there must be something awkward and uncomfortable about interviewing a person who’s fidgety and rushed nature is only outweighed by their intensely groaning stomach. In the only 15 minutes of the whole day you needed to keep free, you’ll find it pretty damn hard to take a timeout to massacre their toilet. On top of this, the formal setting makes it sort of impossible to let the recruitment manager know you’re about to blow. If this is the opportunity of a lifetime, or you’re simply flat fucking broke, you can’t afford to screw this up, so get those cheeks clenched and focus on the prize!
My experience in this relatively unpleasant realm came in late 2011 during an interview with a local energy provider. The role wasn’t something life changing, but it was set to pay my bills as an aspiring alcoholic who lived out of home. The night before, I’d met up with some friends and indulged in some spicy Mexican, a choice that would inevitably come back to bite me. Waking up with an hour to spare, I immediately became aware of my stomachs instability. By the time I got to the job interview, it felt like a burrito was about to burst out of my ass. There was so much pressure building up down there, I felt like I was about a half-pound of force away from plastering the waiting room with a patented, digested Mad Mex feast. By the time I was called in for my turn, something had to be done. On the walk down the mundane hall toward the interview room I decided to excrete small amounts of gas periodically to ease my now painful abdomen. I figured it would trail behind me, but within moments the hallway smelt like an unsanitary shit stained kitchen in Mexico City. ‘This was bad’ I thought to myself.
Sitting down and answering questions in a job interview can be unpleasant in ideal circumstances, but when you feel like your stomachs reached a toxic level via spicy salsa – its the worst thing in the world. As sweat built up on my brow and I threw down one word answers to even the most complex questions, the last thing I was thinking about was employment. If I got out of the interview with my pants intact, it was going to be a successful day. “Are you feeling ok?” Kevin asked, a comfortably relaxed man in his mid forties who was obviously aware something was up. “Yep” I replied, clenching harder than a petite male model in a prison. At that very moment, almost on cue, I had farted. I’m not sure if it was loud enough for him to hear, but I knew the room was about 3 seconds away from being declared radioactive. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, as he was seemingly rounding up the interview, but it was too late. The smell was so bad my nostrils were burning and anything short of Kevin having an Airwick candle up his nose meant that he was probably going through the same issues. “Thanks for your time” he said. I don’t think I even replied. I fled the room like my life were in jeopardy.
To no surprise, I never got a call back from Kevin. As a matter of fact, if the stayed in that room any longer, he may very well have died.