I think my favorite type of guy is the guy who will shit in every toilet he sees. Like, I worked with a guy who would blow up the break room toilet where dozens of coworkers, both male and female, would congregate and then he’d walk out and the stench of raunch shit would blanket the break area and the dude would act like it was nothing. And when I was in the Army, there was a tool crib/warehouse-like area that had an open air bathroom attached to it, and this mother fucker would go in there and blast his asshole every morning for the whole warehouse to hear. There seems to be an unspoken rule about certain toilets at the workplace, like some toilets are meant for pissing only. No matter. If a toilet can handle shit, someone will inevitably shit in it. It’s a hardwired rule of the universe, much like Newton’s laws of thermodynamics.
“Larry gave me a boner pill,” I explained to Sam as she plunged another massive turd down a toilet.
“You know,” she said, “I really wish people learned how to courtesy flush. I can’t begin to tell you how many toilets I have to unclog everyday!”
“I understand,” I sympathized.
“Or at the very least, stop trying to flush entire rolls of toilet paper after each shit!”
“Sam, did you hear what I said?”
She stopped for a moment to wipe her brow. “Yes Donny, I’m sorry,” she replied. “I just have a lot going on.”
“Can I help you with anything?”
“No, remember what I told you? It’s a liability for guests at the Salvation Army to do any work!”
“Is everything okay? I’m only trying to help.”
Sam put down the plunger and took off her rubber gloves. After she threw them on the ground, she lowered the toilet seat and sat down. “I think I told you too much, Donny,” she said as she rubbed her face. “I’m sorry if I came onto you a little strong yesterday. I’m just a little frustrated.”
“No need to apologize, I get it,” I explained. “I’ve been there before. I mean, look at my life right now.”
“I know, but look: I know you got loads of sperm going unused. But I don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know how to tell my husband that I’m gonna fuck a hobo to get pregnant!”
“I see,” I heavily exhaled. I took the Cialis out of my pocket and held it in my hand. “I don’t want to rush you. My dead ass dick can wait. The mounds and mounds of ejaculate ain’t going anywhere. It’ll be there whenever you need it.”
I put the pill back into my pocket and started walking away. “Please wait,” Sam pleaded. I stopped in my tracks and she stood up. “Donny, I don’t want to keep you waiting,” she continued. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready. It’s not you.”
Then she began to stammer. “Besides,” she finally uttered, “I don’t think it’s healthy for you to hold back that much semen. When you have time, perhaps you should let it out in the shower. Just…,” she left me hanging.
“Yes Sam. Yes?”
“…just don’t clog the shower drain,” she concluded, then lowered her head.
I stared at her for a few moments…hoping, wishing, waiting…for something more. When I knew it wasn’t coming, I nodded and slowly walked away.
I’m barely literate enough as it is so I’m gonna take it easy for today by pulling a Hollywood move and let AI write for me. By the way, perhaps we still need screenwriters, but do we really need commercial writers?
Let’s ponder this question while we read a pitch for toilets by Werner Herzog:
For the last time, I will walk through those doors, pull down my pants, and take another 10 hour shit while on the clock.
I don’t like how things are ending. I gave that place so much of my blood, sweat, and tears (and so, so much shit). But this is the way it’s got to be.
Monday, I’ll embark on a new career working at the nut factory. God knows how that’s gonna pan out. Instead of shitting, I wonder what I’ll do in the bathroom for 10 hours? 🤔 😉
Anyway, my schedule’s changing. Hopefully the new job will give me a renewed sense of disdain for both my audience and life in general.
So the toilet factory is back to its same old shit. They tell me now that I need to stop taking extra long shit breaks. And I tell them that extra long shit breaks are good for the company because shitting is why we’re in business!
This is stressful. I am tired, depressed, and disappointed that I put this much effort into this shit business only to get treated like shit itself in return.
But today’s kinda an emotional day for me. This was the first time I stood up against authority…and WON. But where there are victors, there are also losers. And it will take time for these wounds to heal.
Yet today’s a new day at the toilet factory. And you can rest assured that I will always stand up for your right to shit.
“Care for a Fruit Roll-up?” I asked Layla. I was riding in the passenger seat while she was driving down I-10. We we’re leaving California for good.
“No,” she simply replied.
“More for me then.”
We didn’t say much. Before we left, I loaded Donovan’s dead body into the trunk. The two of us were still covered in his blood.
“I’ve been wondering, Layla,” I said, “have you gave any thought to what I told you back there at the strip club?”
“The fuck are you talking about now?”
“You know…about me being madly in love with you, God sending you to me, and all that jazz…”
Layla then swerved off to the shoulder and slammed on the brakes. The sudden stoppage made me spit out my Fruit Rollup.
“Get out,” she demanded.
“But why?”
“I’ve known you for maybe four hours and you’re already the craziest son of a bitch I’ve met.”
“Layla, I’m just asking you a question. I have feelings, ya know? And you’re not being very receptive to them!”
“I’ve got my boyfriend’s dead body in the trunk, and you want to talk about FEELINGS? Who do you think I am? Your mother? Your therapist? Fuck you AND your feelings!”
“But…but…I know that God…”
“You think that God is on your side?” Layla interrupted. “Then good for you buddy! Maybe he’ll give you a ride cuz I certainly won’t! Now get out of MY car!”
I stepped out of the vehicle stunned. But before I shut the door, I leaned forward to say one more thing. “Layla, I just want to say that I will always love…,” but she squealed the tires, with the sudden force shutting the door closed, then off she went…going 9-0, eastbound down I-10.
Other than the blood soaked clothes on my back, I had nothing. The sun was just dawning over the desert horizon.
About five miles down the road was a lone gas station. I walked inside, grabbed a biscuit, and tossed it into the microwave. Then I walked up to the station attendant.
“Gotta take a shit,” I said.
“Bathroom’s down the hall.”
While glancing through a porno mag while sitting on the toilet (I must’ve been in Nevada), I heard a commotion outside. I quickly wiped my ass and stepped out of the bathroom. The attendant was being held at gunpoint by a couple of bikers. One of them was holding a .38 special.
Before they noticed me, I grabbed my biscuit from the microwave. “You guys should really try the food here,” I said as I chewed on the bread.
The biker with the .38 turned his weapon on me. “Give us your money too, pal!” he ordered.
So I took out my wallet and pulled out a $5 bill. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “I’ll make you a deal: you give me that .38 and I’ll give you this $5 bill.”
“Or else what?” the biker chuckled.
I took another bite of the biscuit. “Welp,” I wondered aloud, “then I hope you’ve accepted Jesus into your life. Cuz you’re about to meet him.”
The two bikers nervously cackled while sweat poured down their faces. I stared them down while continuing to eat the biscuit. Finally one of them looked over to the other. “Can you believe this jackass?” he asked.
Then I threw the rock hard biscuit into his face, wrestled the .38 out of his hands, and shot dead the other biker. With the last thief on the ground and my knee to his throat, I pointed the .38 between his eyes. “I’ve already sent two people to hell today: Donovan McNabb and your friend here. Shall I make it a third?” I asked him.
The biker cried as he shook his head ‘no’.
“Then accept Jesus in your life,” I said.
“I accept! I ACCEPT!” he yelled.
“Then I’ll see you in heaven,” I replied. I pulled the trigger then bits of skull and brain matter went all over the floor.
I stood up straight and secured the .38 in the front of my pants. Then I looked over to the attendant. “Sorry for messing up your floor,” I said, “and for clogging your toilet.”
“I fucking hate you,” Eric’s mom informed him. “You disappear for two weeks without letting me know where you were! How disrespectful of you, you piece of shit!”
“Mom, put down the booze and listen!” Eric replied. “Like I said, I got drunk at a bar, walked home, got HIT by a drunk driver, she nursed me back to health, and now we’re in love. Are you fucking stupid?”
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!”
“There’s nothing crazy about it at all. It happens everyday!”
Eric’s mom shook her head. “Your father would be disappointed in you if he were still alive.”
“He is still alive. He just lives in Indiana!”
“Get out!” she screamed. “You’re not welcome back in this house. You’ve been nothing but a burden to me. You sleep all day, you do nothing but clog the toilet and play Xbox. And I’ve even caught you wearing my underwear! You’re a disgusting pervert!”
“Ma, I’m a man goddamnit! A MAN!“ Eric shouted. “And as the man of this household, I will not be addressed in that tone! I’m a proud libertarian and I believe in working for everything I’ve got! You’re not kicking me out! I’m unplugging my Xbox and LEAVING!”
Eric yanked the plug out of the wall, kicked the door open, and stomped his way over to Don Lemon’s house a block away. He pounded on the door until Don’s pregnant wife, Stacy, answered.
“Don’s not here, sweetheart,” she said to him.
“Oh that’s okay, I’m just gonna play Xbox and crash in your basement for awhile. Don will be cool with it.”
“Uhh, I don’t think so,” she replied as she tried to block him from entering. “Don and I have to discuss this first.”
“Darling,” Eric said, “with all due respect, Don is the man of the house and I’ve known him longer than you. So please, step aside and let a grown ass man play some goddamn Minecraft!”
Right then, Don Lemon pulled up in his 4-cylinder Honda CR-V. “Don, can you believe this shit?” Eric said to him, “your wife won’t let me through the door. Who does she think she is?”
A puzzled Don looked over to Stacy. “What’s going on here?” he asked her.
“Eric wants to….”
“Let me explain, Don,” Eric interrupted, “Ma was being a bitch, so I told her to fuck off. I came over here to crash for awhile until I can talk my girlfriend into letting me move in with her. It’s not a big deal!”
“Your girlfriend? Move in? I don’t understand…”
“Yeah, my girlfriend dude, I told you! She’s like 60 years old, but still pretty hot, you know what I’m saying? Plus she’s rich. Anyways, I’m trying not to make things weird because we’ve only known each other for two weeks, so it’s probably too early to move in together. So I’m just gonna stay in your basement until enough time passes and I can move in with her. It’s quite simple.”
“I don’t think so, Eric,” Don replied, “Stacy’s due at any moment and we’ve got enough going on in this household…”
“I see, I see…,” Eric nodded, “so I guess our friendship means nothing to you. I should have known. Stacy’s totally domesticated you. You’ll never be Enkidu to my Gilgamesh, Robin to my Batman, or Spock to my Kirk. Oh well! A real man must forge his own path anyway.”
Eric straightened himself up, ran fingers through his hair, and with the Xbox in hand, he started marching proudly down the street. Then he stopped in his tracks. “Can you drive me to my girlfriends?” he asked Don.
Alright, here’s the beginning of September’s story. Hopefully it will be tragic, heartwarming, thought-provoking, sappy, lovey-dovey, etc etc. Just like you’d find in any shitty Hallmark movie or 90’s Oscar-bait picture.
Don’t hold your breath though. I am pulling this story right out my ass. Maybe it’ll good though. I have a good feeling about this one.
William Shitz woke up the same time every morning: 4:30AM.
He’d look in the mirror, trim his mustache, and evacuate his bowels. He’d always use two squares of toilet paper. No more, no less.
His bowel movement was a little more painful than usual this particular morning. But he thought nothing of it. After wiping his ass, William departed to his study to read the morning newspaper.
“Can you believe this Archibald?” William asked the butler in his thick transatlantic accent.
“Belief what sir?” asked Archibald.
“The Dow 500 crashed 8 million points yesterday. We must be in a recession!”
“Nonsense, sir,” Archibald said, “you’re a billionaire. None of that will affect you.”
“Mmm, right you are,” William said as he sipped his Earl Grey. “Do tell me, have I missed any phone calls this morning?”
“It’s 5am, sir. It won’t be start of business for another couple of hours.”
“Right. Well I better get moving then, I don’t want to fall behind on the day’s schedule.”
William Shitz removed his smoking jacket, put on his business attire and ascot then climbed into the back of his Rolls-Royce Phantom III. As Archibald was driving the vehicle, he handed the gold-plated phone back to William. “Your daughter is on the line, sir,” he said.
“Darla Shitz,” William said into the phone, “how have you been my dear?”
“Dad, I’m ready to come home,” Darla replied.
“Now now, Darla, you know I wish to be called ‘father’.”
“Father, I’ve been in France for six years! I know that it was rough on you when mother passed, but I want to be back with my family!”
“Now’s not a good time, darling. I must be going, I have a busy day ahead of me. Goodbye.” William abruptly hung up the phone and handed it back to Archibald.
“How is Darla doing, Mr. Shitz?” Archibald asked. “I would love to see her again.”
“Oh fine, fine,” William replied, “but I’m afraid she wishes to stay in France a little longer.”
The Rolls pulled up to Shitz Factory, a large DoD contractor that develops and manufactures weapons used to drop on villages in the Middle East. It was personally owned by Mr. William Shitz himself.
“I haven’t had a day off in two years,” said Allan Funt, Vice-President of operations and William’s right-hand man. “I’m overworked, I’ve developed a drinking problem, and my wife is fucking the mailman. All I’m asking is a couple of days off.”
“I’m sorry Allen,” Mr. Shitz replied, “but I expect all of my employees to give the same dedication that I gave into building this company for a laughable fraction of what I make. That goes for you as well.”
Allan began to tear up. For a fleeting moment, William felt a degree of sympathy for him. “Now now, Allen,” William said, “you’re my most valuable employee. Keep up the good work and maybe I’ll give you a day off next year.”
Allan nodded, wiped away a tear, and diligently went back to work. As William was returning to his office, he felt a sharp pain in his stomach.
“Are you alright, sir?” Archibald asked.
“I don’t understand, Archibald,” William said, “I already had a bowel movement this morning.”
His stomach continued to cramp. He rushed into his private office and on into the bathroom then dropped his pants. He noticed that he already soiled his silk underwear.
William continued to spray shit out of his rectum and into his diamond-made toilet. After a violent two minutes, he grabbed his usual two squares of toilet paper and wiped his crack. When he looked back at the paper, he was appalled.
The Internet Ruined Everything 