It’s too fucking cold. It’s too cold and I may have to take the dreaded work shit. Breaking a covenant I made with myself long ago, that after every shit would come a shower. They scoff at me for this, society. What’s the matter, can’t you wipe? Yes, I can, but this is not an FDA-permitted 3 rat hairs in your can of chili situation. Any amount of shit on your body ever is unacceptable. I wipe till the paper comes up clean or bloody, but that is not enough. If I shat on your hand, would you give it a couple dry passes with a napkin and call it a day? No, knave, you’d wash your fucking hand.
I live in mortal fear of any pair of underwear I own getting skidmarks on them. The white bits turning brown from my musky taint sweat is not an issue; holes are not an issue– there are boxers where my distended left nut hangs fully outside the garment and grinds into my car keys. I still keep them around. But once I see a skid mark, those underwear will be immolated. No exceptions.
On the rare days when I may have to take a work shit– when, despite my earnest study of the amount of waste in the morning’s bowl, and a careful gauging of its mass relative to the food eaten the previous day, and if this ratio is found lacking, my patiently waiting and squeezing out every last chunk before a vigorous shower– on the rare days this ritual fails me, my entire morning is spent in a shit quandary. Do I dare break the seal. Walk into the rest room in full view of coworkers who all know what’s about to go down. Is it at all possible to avoid it. Suffer a queasy night of dreams about goblins scraping my intestines and awake to merge it with tomorrow’s shit. Maybe the ends will be different colors.
Still, there is something about the work shit that makes it superior to other shits. The desperation. The waiting. You are shitting out of primal need, rather than mere ritualized habit. The work shit held in for hours is never a meager rabbit pebble. It’s always an arm-thick stinging snake barging out of your anus like being prison raped in reverse. The work shit is a feast when you are truly hungry, or the first fuck after a dry spell. You feel a bliss afterward that only your ancient ancestors must have felt bringing down a mammoth, knowing they had staved off death another day. Sure it’s embarassing. The cocked eyebrows in the offices you walk past. But for a minute, nothing can get you down. To you I am a cog in the machine, a robot for making you money, and what’s more I better be thankful for it. But when I work shit I have become a beast and my asshole has taken command. Its authority is greater than any law. I take your priggish civilization, your oppressive constraints on my life, your claim to ownership of every minute of my day, and I shit on them.
Fuck it, I better take this shit.