Scatological Studies

My experience in the bathroom just minutes ago gave me a new appreciation for that delightful colloquialism, the nefarious 'grog bog', as litres of this sickening fecal liquid exited my body for the promise of prosperity that our poor toilet bowl had to offer. Naturally, I brought this upon myself, and one should not expect to feel just fine and dandy after staying up till 4 in the morning to sit around drinking beers until there are no more. Washed down with the aid of sausages and fried onions, and a generous portion of bread to soak up the gratuitous oils dripping across the plate, I woke up with one of those deceptive hangovers that were perhaps best described by Dylan Moran as feeling quite adequate until making it from the bedroom to the kitchen, when the goblins come out of the woodwork to unleash their vengeance.

The famed 'clean wipe', once all too common after meals consisting of cardboard (think the blandest of fast food), becomes an increasingly mythical prospect as the diet of 'anything goes' continues to pace along, unchecked. A few years ago, I could scarf down cheeseburgers and gummy bears all day long only to calmly approach my bathroom, sit there for a minute or two, and use toilet paper that, for all intents and purposes, could very well have been placed back on the roll. Those were simpler times, and I am led to believe that this situation is only going to get worse.

Now, of course, the process is an event, often broken up into many different scenes, each one more frightening than the one prior. I arrive to the commode to make my deposit, and then fifteen or thirty minutes later, I realise that my work was incomplete, and so I must return, and spend slightly longer, and use considerably more tissue, and feel slightly more demoralised about my day, until the evening when I have lost any semblance of a will to live.

It's not just defecation. I have recurring nightmares about cracking my teeth, but that very well could be a blessing in disguise, as they would at least then get replaced with shiny new fake ones. Not even the most vigilant brusher of one's mouth is immune to the horrors of the constant bombardment of coffee, alcohol, and fried fat, culminating in what could charitably be described as chronic halitosis. On the most unfortunate of afternoons, it tastes and feels like a terrible chemical explosion in a chocolate and ketchup factory, as the workers run for their lives only to drown in a bloodthirsty pool of sugar. The plaque that accumulates on my gums could very well be used to produce yellow paint, if not for its fatal odour.

Yes, there are many things to look forward to as we age, and now, if you'll excuse me, I must dash to the W.C.