Huge Dump Taken At New Sushi Restaurant
by Jessica Delfino
I don't remember what time it was when I realized I had to go #2. But I had to go, and there wasn't a brick wall or a pair of handcuffs anywhere that would keep me from doing what I "needed to do." My friend invited me out to lunch not knowing what evils hid deep inside of my soul and my entrails. I went into the fancy bathroom, a small room much too good for doing what I was about to do in it, and a pang of guilt overtook me - what had these nice people ever done to me? Surely nothing to deserve the horrid attack I was about to deliver. I am no terrorist, but my butt can be terroristic at times.
I made sure the door was locked. I was not about to have some poor tourist from Boise trapse in, catching my eyes for that one moment that would leave them in shock and fear; the moment that overtakes a person as they catch you in mid-plop. It is a similar feeling to catching someone you love with their man meat in their mitt; a look of desparate self-loathing-love on their ecstatic faces. Among the evil that lies in man lest we forget that man is also a sad being; a lonely being that makes gross liquids.
I kissed the seat with my soft buttocks. Oh, the joy of the men whose fingers have graced the flaxen flesh of my downy bottom - wouldn't they be shamed now to imagine their palms in place as my mudflaps flapped the mud away?
As every person fears when defecating in a public place, especially one of value, I hoped the toilet would flush, carrying my brown sins to hell, where they belonged.
I pushed, and it pulled, and I thanked god, once again.
I washed my hands furiously, as if to scrub away the metaphor of filth that surely coated them, and went out to eat some yummy food, and go make more dark wrongs.
I'd nearly forgotten about my private donation, when a child; a lovely-faced child entered the restaurant, joyfully exclaiming to the kindly japanaman in high-pitched innocense if she could please use the bathroom!? Of course, he said yes.
It took all I had not to leap from my seat, fly through the air in a japaname' stream, and knock her to the ground, saving her from the aftermath of my leavings.
But I let her go.
She would be a woman, soon.
As I ate the last bite of my delicious meal, I thought of the last remarkable line of the poem by Alexander Pope: "Oh, Celia! Celia! Celia shits!"
Oh, she shat alright. And don't they all, Alexander? Don't we all?