Name: VIPPER 2007-01-22 6:43
my coworker jeff and i stop in at the subway located inside the office building we work in. my usual cold cut combo simply won’t do it for me today, so i decide to get a bbq chicken sandwich, warmed to perfection with some southwest sauce smothered on it for good measure. because i can, i also grab a cookie and a large coke. jeff eyes me the way a mother might eye a child. i know what he’s thinking. he’s thinking that i shouldn’t be eating this stuff because the night before i got very very drunk at the pool in my apartment building. and he’s right, i shouldn’t eat it, but i’m going to. And i’m going to pay.
it happens midway through my second coke. it’s like a dog coughing lightly on the outside of my ass; a puff of warm air that feels like it might contain some kind of liquid, and maybe some solid matter as well. my eyes widen.
“i gotta use the restroom man.” it’s all i can say. jeff nods, then does a double take. “restroom” is not in my vocabulary. if i need to go to the bathroom i point and say “gonna use the head” or something hicks from aliens might say. “restroom” implies business. “restroom” is a board meeting. i won’t be having fun in the “restroom”. the “restroom” is for serious matters.
i’m running to the restroom. my ass is saigon. there are americans trying to get the last helicopter out. a news crew is recording everything. there is drama. i hold my ass and push through the door into the mens room.
as i enter the stall the helicopters take off, leaving a surge of people behind. i can already feel something making its way down my pant legs, onto my socks, onto the floor. i hesitate a moment and then assess the damage.
there is shit on my leg. there is shit in my boxers. there is shit on my socks, and there is shit on the floor. and this isn’t rabbit shit, the dry pebble that you can pick up and throw at someone, it’s not the kind of shit you play with when you’re four years old and don’t know shit from shit. no. this is post-mcdonalds breakfast sandwich shit. this is runny, keanu reeves waking up in that tub in the matrix covered in pink shit shit. this is real shit, and it fucking stinks.
i look a little closer. there is shit between the top of my sock and the skin of my leg, and there is some shit on the hair of my leg. what am i going to do? what can i do?
i take off my boxers. i take off my shoes. there’s shit in my shoes. oh my god, there’s shit in my shoes. how did shit get in my shoes?
with no time to ponder such metaphysical questions, i do the only thing i can logically think to do.
i stand in front of the sink and clean my shoes. i am wearing a pair of pants that are not buttoned or zipped because i didn’t think to do either thing. my shirt is untucked. i am barefoot. there is a pair of socks and boxers with shit on them lying on top of that trash can that’s in the paper towel dispenser in the wall. then jeff walks in.
it happens midway through my second coke. it’s like a dog coughing lightly on the outside of my ass; a puff of warm air that feels like it might contain some kind of liquid, and maybe some solid matter as well. my eyes widen.
“i gotta use the restroom man.” it’s all i can say. jeff nods, then does a double take. “restroom” is not in my vocabulary. if i need to go to the bathroom i point and say “gonna use the head” or something hicks from aliens might say. “restroom” implies business. “restroom” is a board meeting. i won’t be having fun in the “restroom”. the “restroom” is for serious matters.
i’m running to the restroom. my ass is saigon. there are americans trying to get the last helicopter out. a news crew is recording everything. there is drama. i hold my ass and push through the door into the mens room.
as i enter the stall the helicopters take off, leaving a surge of people behind. i can already feel something making its way down my pant legs, onto my socks, onto the floor. i hesitate a moment and then assess the damage.
there is shit on my leg. there is shit in my boxers. there is shit on my socks, and there is shit on the floor. and this isn’t rabbit shit, the dry pebble that you can pick up and throw at someone, it’s not the kind of shit you play with when you’re four years old and don’t know shit from shit. no. this is post-mcdonalds breakfast sandwich shit. this is runny, keanu reeves waking up in that tub in the matrix covered in pink shit shit. this is real shit, and it fucking stinks.
i look a little closer. there is shit between the top of my sock and the skin of my leg, and there is some shit on the hair of my leg. what am i going to do? what can i do?
i take off my boxers. i take off my shoes. there’s shit in my shoes. oh my god, there’s shit in my shoes. how did shit get in my shoes?
with no time to ponder such metaphysical questions, i do the only thing i can logically think to do.
i stand in front of the sink and clean my shoes. i am wearing a pair of pants that are not buttoned or zipped because i didn’t think to do either thing. my shirt is untucked. i am barefoot. there is a pair of socks and boxers with shit on them lying on top of that trash can that’s in the paper towel dispenser in the wall. then jeff walks in.