Making My Way Downtown.

There’s nothing quite like going to the restroom and scoring a touchdown.  And by scoring a touchdown, I mean taking the kids to the pool, dropping a deuce, going number two, whatever.  Point is, the relief that follows after is like the relief of knowing that you passed a test you thought you failed…except you get a chance to experience it every day.  It truly is one of the little pleasures of life.  One of the greatest parts of this corporeal episode is that you can easily increase the amount of pleasure and relief simply by waiting until the last possible moment to excrete.  The familiar signs are the uncomfortable squirming that seems uncontrollable, knowing that you tread the fine line between a tsunami of relief and soiling your trousers; the pain that starts building up in the midsection, and pretty soon it’s all that your mind is focusing on; the gaping need to expel flatulence, but not indulging in that desire for fear of, again, soiling yourself.  The perfect combination of all of these with a well-timed stroll to the nearest restroom is the immaculate recipe for a successful visit to the pool with the kids.

That being said, things can also go terribly wrong in those stalls of silent vigil.  One thing that might happen is that as you are strolling, the anticipation of relaxation mounts too high and too early, and you end up soiling yourself before you even get to have a seat and enjoy the show.  Another thing that might happen is that all the stalls are – forbid this should ever happen – taken.  But, the horror of horrors is when, after completing the task and feeling accomplished, you go for the proverbial wipe…only to discover that the integrity of your toilet paper has been compromised, leaving you in – it pains me to say it – some deep crap.  Breaking out in a cold sweat is common when one discovers that excrement is not on the toilet paper, but on the digits of your hands.  It’s like some cruel joke that fate plays out for you, that after you should believe all to be good in the world, after all the stress stored in your gut has been released, you should find yourself at the hands of the mercilessly thin and insufficiently plied toilet paper that crumbled under duress, giving way to an atrocity of hygiene.  It is indeed one of the most depressing experiences of an average middle-class life; when, at the end of the day, you find yourself swearing silently in your head and using extra pumps of soap at the faucet to try and cleanse yourself from the stains of shame.  Those accursed smears of…poo, burning a memory in your skin for the rest of the day.  Oh, what a feeling.


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