Ballet avant de Toilette

We gotta head for higher ground
We can't come back till the water comes down,
Five feet high and risin'
- Johnny Cash

As I mentioned yesterday, I only use the restrooms here at work when it is absolutely necessary. The previous post was not hyperbole. If anything, it was an understatement of the unspeakable horrors in the third floor restroom.
But I had to work late last night. When I work late, I like to have an afternoon coffee. I'll let you connect the dots, but the physiological cause-effect paradigm of ingesting fluids made using the facilities, in fact, a necessity. A man can only hold so much.
So as I packed up to leave, I reluctantly slipped in for a pit-stop (knowing full well that I'd be face-to-face with the yesterday's aforementioned wall booger). If you were paying attention, I also mentioned that people use the urinal as a wastebasket for their chewing gum, binder clips, wads of paper, band-aids, etc. Of course, as I walked in, the urinal was clogged and nasty mess was spilling out onto the floor.
Before I realized it, I had tread (waded) halfway through the room. Once I figured out that I was ankle-deep in liquid human waste, I gingerly stepped over the puddle (so as not to splash and ruin my pants) to use the commode in the stall.
Now someone had left a about a quarter roll of TP unspooled in the doorway. I didn't see it, so I stepped right on it. The combination of the floor pee with the toilet tissue made a paper mache-like paste on the sole of my shoe. The remaining few sheets flagged out from under my heel.
You must realize by now that there is no sanitary or suave way out of this situation. Either I use my hand to remove the raw sewage affixed to my loafer (gross) or else I walk out of the restroom trailing a toilet paper banner from my shoe. I had my briefcase and sportcoat in my hand and did not want to set them down for fear of them being permanently contaminated. So with the puddle growing and spreading across the floor, I was in grave danger of being encroached upon by this festering cesspool of filth.
I could have panicked, yet I took a deep breath and remembered being forced to watch Billy Elliot on a date. As the crescendo of Tchaikovsky's score swirled in my head, I attempted to step left foot-over-right on the paper in fifth position. This did not work and sent me into an impromptu grand fouetté, nearly sending me sprawling and flailing to the floor. Then I cautiously balanced on one leg and lifted my shoe in a clumsy pirouette. Without much aplomb, I managed to lift my leg high enough to scrape the bottom of my sole on the broken metal door latch. With enough leverage, I successfuly extricated the paper from my heel.
The plumbing was still flowing and I knew I had to get out of there fast. Drowning in raw sewage is pretty much the worst way to go. Ever.
I leapt over the puddle to dry, safe ground. As I walked out, I briefly contemplated going down to the 2nd floor to finish what I never really started.
I didn't press my luck.
I held it until I got home.