Let me paint a picture for you here.
Imagine yourself at the kind of the party where people get drunk, smash holes in the wall, and then patch the holes up with cardboard from spare cases of beers. Drunken but not thoughtless, as it were.
Now imagine that the owner of this newly-perforated home comes staggering out of the bathroom in the very latter hours of the party, when everyone has comfortably transitioned from their mostly-vertical simian hunches to a sort of protoplasmic horizontalness, bulging with veins pumping pure, red-hot anger through his body.
In the awful silence that follows his arrival he screams: “WHO SHIT IN THE TOILET?!”
If you’re good at imagining things you should have come to the same conclusion all of us present did: stupefied confusion combined with the immediate nagging fear that yes, somewhere in the course of the drunken evening, we probably had shit in the toilet. It was a long party, after all.
Apartment Owner, veins still bulging, repeated his urgent query as the first few hands began to rise: “WHO SHIT IN THE TOILET?!”
Enraged repetitions followed.
I have no idea who finally managed to struggle to his feet, skirt carefully around A.O., and peer into the bathroom. Whoever it was would have seen the problem immediately: the lid of the toilet tank was askew, and floating in the tank next to the small inflated bladder that usually floats in toilet tanks were three or four things that do not usually float in toilet tanks.
I like to think I learned something about word choice that day.