. . . that's what my dad would always say when he was dealing with something stinky and gross, like doing an autopsy on a bloated dead cat (it exploded in his face).
So that's what I'm trying to tell myself (or "smells like rent!") almost every morning at 7am. I wipe my fair share of behinds at work, and it usually doesn't much bother me. But why oh why must everyone have their movements of the bowels right as we're trying to start shift change? I swear my patients hold it in all night, and when it's crunch time and I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off and trying to tie up loose ends, well, they've got to go now.
Murphy's law I suppose.