(a short “yarn,” or essay, or something of the sort)
Today I’m going to write about my shit. I’m going to fill a whole page about it. Why? Maybe it’s because no one has dared (or cared) to do that before. Or maybe it’s because it actually deserves it. Or maybe it’s because . . . I don’t know, I just want to make you feel sick. But the sickest thing is that you will actually read it. Every last word.
When I sat on the toilet this morning, I didn’t know what to expect. My hairy balls were dangling uncannily low above the water. I was afraid they would actually take a dip. Which may not have been a bad thing. It was unusually hot today here in Paris, and I was sweating.
I looked out the window and saw a squirrel. It looked back at me, the quizzical little thing. I think it actually knew I was on the can. It nibbled on its nuts, just like the water was nibbling at mine. Then the idea of it watching me drop a deuce was just too unsettling, so I tapped gently on the glass, and it was gone.
Now, different shits have different consistencies and odors. Like when you’re in an Indian restaurant, you know you need to avoid the restroom. Mexican food can do that too if you don’t watch out, so if you feel the need to visit the W.C. next time you’re eating a sopaipilla, better get your nose a sombrero. For me, with Mexican, sometimes the grease actually makes its way all the way through, and it looks like the dump just went for a swim in the Valdez.
But this morning was different. It wasn’t juicy and luscious. It was one of those fucking constipated days, where you squeeze and squeeze and clench and clench and the damn shit just won’t come out. I dub those days the “stihs” because it’s just the plain dang opposite of having the shits.
I worked hard on the toilet. My face must have been a crimson red. I leaned over and spit in the sink, like it was some kind of Western spittoon. I tensed my abs, which were strengthened to the max from doing countless sit-ups each night, and damn, I just blasted that fucking shit into the toilet.
It was Indian. It was Mexican. It was all the grub I ate at the party yesterday, all combined, all mixed up, all strewn together. It didn’t even know what fucking race it was, it was so interbred. I saw white in it from the partially undigested cannellini beans. I saw black in it from the all-too-much digested cannellini beans. I saw red in it from the tomato sauce I ate with my chicken parm. I saw purple and green and all sorts of festive colors, probably from the fucking Rock n’ Pop Swirl I ate at Baskin Robbins to top off the night. I saw yellow from the pussy juice of the Asian girl I ate out and banged. I saw orange from the fresh squeezed orange juice I chugged to wash that taste down and also from the sun-tanned Aztec girl I ate out and banged. I saw God himself in that shit, smiling back at me, saying that I did a better job creating a melting pot of harmonious diversity in my shit than he did on this rotten mass of junk we call Earth. God’s people walk around killing each other. At least my shits went down the drain holding hands.
And down the drain they did go. And then I flushed, pulled up my pants, and dropped them again realizing in my smugness that I had forgotten to wipe. I wiped, and wiped again, until I could wipe no more (always making sure that my wipes would end in a multiple of two, of course), and then pulled up my pants . . . Zymmmph… and off I went to the sink. One, two, three seconds, soap, four, five, six seconds, and that was it.
I left a part of myself behind this afternoon in the can. Part of me will never be the same. But by sharing this story with others, my loss will undoubtedly become your gain . . . if you aren’t already in the bathroom puking from reading this filth, or better yet, dropping a shit of your own.