Fueled by two cups of coffee, my butt hole is beckoned to the restroom. As Captain Ahab's dead hand beckons his crew to follow him to death, so too does the toilet seat wave me over for a rendezvous of sorts. This is a man vs. machine conflict. Or is it man vs. himself? It's a combination of both:
The toilet seat is cold, the paper seat cover sticks to my ass and the bowl does little to contain the smell of various digested meats and vegetables. My poo is like molasses, thick and slow to leave the bottle. I cannot help but urinate; wetting the paper seat cover, pieces cling to my penis. Wiping is torture and my butt hole quivers under the stress.
I flush. Slowly pull my pants and underwear back up, and question whether I have even finished pooping. I quietly return to my desk, unaccomplished, tail between my legs, or is it a piece of fecal matter? There is no triumph in the men's room today.
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