What Happens to a Shit Deferred? 

by Hugo de Mare

Work sucks. Do yourself a favor and develop a crush on the receptionist. It’s about all you’ve got to take the sting out of the work week. You’re not getting promoted, your efforts will continue to go unrecognized, there’s no raise in your future, and the coffee is shit. Talk to the girl for fuck’s sake. It’ll give you something to focus on besides watching it get dark outside while your no longer young life slips slowly through your fingers. And you know what, if the receptionist is ugly, just power through–she’s the first woman you see every morning so it’s like you’re sleeping with her anyway. And if she’s married, keep hope alive. Bitches cheat, even with schmucks like you.

While we’re on the life improvement tip, let me give you some advice–I’m talking key to happiness stuff here: take a shit whenever you need to. Don’t worry about the consequences, don’t tell me you don’t have time, don’t worry about who will hear or smell or know, and for the love of god don’t hold it in. If there’s a rumble down below, excuse yourself and strike while the iron is hot.

All my problems can be traced back to not having access to some private shitting time. Learn from my mistakes, my social constipation, the could-have-been that haunts my gastro-intestinal system like the ghost of a jilted lover. You need to shit, take a shit. And I’m not talking about squeezing out as much as you can in as little time while she’s on the phone hoping she won’t notice, or loosening the safety valve at work just enough to keep you from throwing up but not enough so that you’d make any noise. I’m talking about squatting til your thighs tingle.  You gotta lighten the load man, you can’t be flirting with the receptionist with last week’s burger trying to claw its way out of your colon, you’ve got enough going against you.

What kind of sadistic practice is it to put the workplace toilet near the receptionist’s desk? You need some space to let sound travel. There need to be federal statutes in place regulating the fair practice of employee restroom placement. Who puts the men’s room right next to the women’s? Do you want an office full of constipated miserable cunts? What the hell do you mean the bathroom is co-ed? At least supply us with some matches, or crank up the muzak in the vicinity of the stall, I mean have a heart. I can chart how much I’ve enjoyed a job by how far away the bathroom was from my co-workers. “The pay is lousy and the work meaningless, but my intestines are spotless. And the receptionist is a dream come true.”
 
I'd have a mad crush on the receptionist in heaven. She'd be so damn cute, I'd always be looking for reasons to hit the lobby. Hey, you got any stamps? Validate me, angel, I’m begging you, validate me. She'd save her best smiles and her most genuine laughter for me. She’d always leave me with the sense that maybe, just maybe, she’d give me a chance. She’d wear cute outfits, not too slutty, she wouldn’t give it away, but she’d show enough to give you the kind of thoughts that’d get you kicked out of the place real quick. She’d have a really comfortable chair by her desk, and there'd never be another dude sitting there when you wanted to take a break from a long day of playing the harp to crack a few jokes, win a few smiles, and sip your coffee. And when the coffee starts kicking in and you have to take a shit, man does heaven have the toilet for you.

You’re damn right there’s a bathroom in heaven, and that shit is clean, it’s isolated from your co-angels, it’s always stocked with some top shelf toilet paper, shit you can’t get at the local super market, overstocked in fact so you can steal some and bring it back to your cloud. And the seats are padded with some celestial material so you can sit there for hours and your legs won't go numb. And there's a copy of that day's newspaper from your hometown, but it would be six sports sections instead of all that business and real estate bullshit, and the comics would actually be funny. And the stalls are equipped with sound dampening gear so you can really let loose.  And there’s no black dude to hand you a paper towel and make you feel guilty after you wash your hands. But there’d still be all that cool stuff, the mints and the chewing gum and the lollipops and whatnot. That stuff rips. You can stock up and flirt with confidence and fresh breath when you get back to the front desk.