Can You Please Stop Crying? Some of Us Are Trying to Poop Over Here.

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Pexels.com

by Austin Bernhardt & Heeseung Kim

Psst! Hey you, in the next stall over! I don’t mean to be insensitive, but could you keep it down? I get that you’re upset (and boy, does my heart go out to you), but this episode you’re having is really interfering with the massive dump I’m taking.

I’m not trying to be rude. In fact, I think it really sucks that in this repressive culture, the only place you feel comfortable emoting is in the cramped squalor of our office bathroom. Hell, I wish we lived in a world where you could walk by someone crying openly and just say, “Wow, look at them feeling their feelings. Good for them.”

But we don’t. We live in a world where I downed a large iced mocha cappuccino on my way to work and am now facing the consequences — specifically, by taking an unexpected ride on the Cow Pie Express. Choo choo, you know what I’m sayin’?

I imagine you must feel pretty alone over there, and rest assured that when this is over, I’d be more than happy to lend an ear and hear all about the injustices the universe has visited upon you. Until then, though, please respect that I’ve managed to hold these demon shits inside of me through three — yes, three — department meetings in a row, and now no powers divine or satanic will keep me from expelling them. So while the empathy bells are certainly clangin’ away somewhere up here in this cluttered noggin of mine, they’re easily being drowned out by the DEFCON 1 alarms blaring inside my asshole.

Is it a breakup that’s plaguing you? A death in the family, perhaps? I lost my favorite grandmother just last year and the pain was so intense I thought I’d never love again. I should say, however, that that was nothing compared to the hellfire currently enveloping my rectum. Did I mention I ate a boatload of jalapeños last night? Because I did, and only now, as this endless fecal torrent escapes my tender alimentary canal, can I recognize my hubris.

Such proud fools we are, Good Neighbor, thinking ourselves invincible! And yet here we are: you, weeping with abandon; me, emptying myself of this noxious deluge. When each of us emerges from our shameful cells, weary and broken, cleansed in one way or another, who can say which of us will have had it worse?

Actually, I take that back. I can, and I do. Take it from me — you’ll feel a lot better once you just let it all out. Shh, sh sh. There, doesn’t that feel nice?

Now pull yourself together and get over here. Someone besides me has to see the size of this thing before I flush it to the underworld.

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