In high school, Saturdays meant speech and debate tournaments—equal parts competitive glory and chaotic downtime. After one meet, while waiting for awards, I wandered the host school with two teammates, Yoder and Baker. Naturally, we ended up in the men’s restroom. That’s where it all began.
We noticed the ceiling was made of those flimsy foam tiles in a metal grid—the kind that dares you to climb into it. So Yoder and I, driven by the brain rot only teenage boys possess, each hopped onto a toilet, popped a tile, and hoisted ourselves into the abyss.
The plan? Peek into the girls’ bathroom. The reality? Bullshit!
As soon as we got up there, voices exploded outside the door—an incoming crowd. Yoder bailed immediately. I, the bold (idiotic) one, stayed, shoving the panel back into place like some kind of espionage mole.
Inside the ceiling, I fumbled for a place to sit and found something that felt vaguely stable. Baker whispered that it was clear. Yoder said he'd check the hall. Just as I went to shift my weight—
CRACK.
My leg punched straight through the foam. I froze, heart pounding. Then came a chorus of snaps, and before I could scream, the ceiling disintegrated beneath me.
I fell through the ceiling like an angel cast from heaven—if that angel slammed into a toilet, pants up, surrounded by a blizzard of foam and shame. I landed perfectly seated, arms stinging, ass throbbing, with aluminum framing curling down like post-apocalyptic confetti.
 |
| Falling through the bathroom ceiling. |
The stall door creaked open.
Baker stood there, tears streaming down his face from laughter. “Get up! We have to go!”
As I rose in pain, the toilet seat snapped in half and clattered to the floor like a final insult. I stepped out, covered in white dust, looking like a coke-dealing ghost in a suit and tie. Baker collapsed, wheezing. I checked the mirror. Long hair. White powder. Haunted eyes. I looked like a disgraced magician who'd lost a fight with drywall.
We bolted.
The hallway was packed. Turns out, a massive sports event had just let out. Yoder stood at a locker, faking a combination, trying not to pass out from laughter. When he saw me, powdery and limping, he dropped to the floor.
Back in the cafeteria, we entered the awards ceremony one by one to avoid suspicion. It didn’t work.
Yoder walked in first, beet-red and grinning like a lunatic. Baker followed, trembling with suppressed laughter. Then me—grim, broken, and clearly dusted in the residue of poor decisions. People asked what happened.
I said, “Nothing.”
Later, on the bus, we pieced it together.
Yoder had heard the crash from the hallway and peeked into the bathroom just in time to see a hole in the ceiling and a dust cloud straight out of a Michael Bay film. He quietly shut the door and slinked off like a CIA agent abandoning a failed op.
Baker had seen my leg burst through the tile and thought, oh no. Then he saw the rest of me come through like a human wrecking ball, arms flailing. When he opened the stall and saw me on the toilet like some dazed bathroom deity, he claims I mumbled, “My butt hurts,” before whispering, “We have to get out of here.”
And as I stood, the toilet seat gave up on life.
Somehow, we never got caught. Maybe they blamed the sports kids. Maybe they thought the ceiling spontaneously combusted. Either way, I never climbed into a ceiling again.
I learned my lesson.
And that lesson is: foam ceilings are a lie.
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