Saturday, December 16, 2006

Beastiality Should Be Legal Tender

I am quite adept at holding in urine. Some might call me The Urine Camel if they had the gusto, wherewithal and costume to do so. Can't go fifteen minutes on a bus without eating something, but pissing? I can hold in yellow thunder from here to Abu Dahbi. I don't mean to brag; someone will probably desire to challenge me. This I do not want because it sounds just arduous, but let me just say I would literally be able to hold my own.

Shitting is another story. Shitting always tends to be another story. Shit can barely be written about without being its own story; for this it will live on in the pantheon of literary discussion.

I discovered the lack of joy instilled with holding in a poop in a public location. At the Gogol Bordello show the other night, I had the inkling of a plop session, and the opening band sucked hairy nard-ball, so I decided this would be the time to make my first ever venture into the First Avenue bathroom. I have attended this concert venue for nigh onto 7 years and have never used the facilities as a throne. I had heard horror stories and was frankly a little put-off. But I really did not want to be in a crowd full of concert-goers holding Mother Nature back, so I figured now would be the time.

I walked into the stall. Not so bad. What was everybody griping about? Just your average john, silver bowl, water below nut-dipping level, plenty of T.P., no fuss, no muss. So on I sat, and the doo was decent enough. No complaints thus far.

Wiping! Wiping was an issue. The booths were way too short, I felt exposed. I felt like everyone was watching me, peering into my private technique and chortling amongst their hipster friends. I felt ashamed, exposed, belittled. These three feelings are not good to have when using paper to remove excess defecates from one's posterior. I prefer elation, relief, and maybe just a tinge of forbidden delight. But none were had as I had to stare into the eye of those that could see me wipe, hands out in the open and all knew just where they had been.

Upon completing my transaction, I glanced downward at the bowl and checked to make sure everything was kosher. No neon shits, no embryos or corn husks remaining in the flotsam. Good show. Not a bad shit, despite the accomodations. This place wasn't so horrid after all. How did it possibly get this reputation?

And then I found out.

The toilet clogged, leaving a bowl of my leavings and wads of T.P. for all the world to see. No plunger in sight, I felt there was little else I could do than walk away slowly and pretend it never happened. With the low stall doors, I'm sure had there been an investigation I would have been found out immedietly. I hate to leave behind evidence like that, but I couldn't risk spilling the bowl over had I flushed again. So I slinked away, tail between my knees, shame-faced and sullied, like a small child who made no-no in the kitchen corner.

And with that, I became That Guy. You know the one; the guy that everyone complains about but will never actually meet. "Aww! Some Guy plugged up the toilet with their POOP! Groders!" "That Guy is disgusting! How could That Guy do that?" I was He that is Him. It was a simple mistake, I was simply trying to empty up before show time! As a frequent victim of shart attacks, I know the dangers of holding something back and bouncing around to loud music. I understand the discomfort of trying to focus both on that awesome guitar solo and breach of bowel security. I didn't want to take any chances, and besides, the opening band sucked ass, so why not take the opportunity? I wasn't trying to hurt anybody, far from it. I just wanted to shit! Is that so wrong?

But here I stand before you, as That Guy, forcing some other poor individual to look into the stall and find the dreaded treasure chest of brown gold staring back at them, warning them not to go without fiber. I was one of many before me to help tarnish the reputation of that bathroom. It is people like me that make people not want to use that bathroom; I am the anecdote that drunkards chide. Here I sit before you, the one who may very well have created the story you are about to tell to your friends about how bad the First Avenue toilets are. All reputations gotta start somewhere; to continue, they simply need individuals like me. Individuals who shall become That Guy.

So, friends, I say unto you, be mindful of the fact that That Guy bears no malicious intent, no ill will, he means not to rile the blood and poison the tonsils. Merely, he is someone like you or me, just trying to take dumps in public places without the stings from his fellow man. How can you judge until you have shat a load in his pants? Chide ye not at the man who leaveth leftover stew, for there but for the grace of God shit thee.
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