Artwork by the lovely, talented, and often beautiful Keir Broadfoot. Check out his comics at www.sweatypenny.com
You walk — no, run towards the washroom. Your pants and underwear already hugging your ankles before you can even see the toilet. As you stumble into the bathroom you do a quick TP check and make sure there’s some reading material. Your mind races through a menu of your last three meals just as your ass crashes down on the seat. Is this the scrambled eggs from breakfast, the Taco Bell from lunch or the corn on the cob from dinner? Maybe all three. As you grip the sides of the toilet and push, your mind reaches a zen-like clarity.
Between dropping bricks, evacuating one remarkable fart that can only be described as rip-roaring, and reading a couple of Maxim (Cosmo?) articles, a feeling of satisfaction washes over your body. Your sins absolved. Thanks be to God.
You stand to let your eyes bare witness to another masterpiece. If only there was a taxidermist for poop, your trophy shelf wouldn’t be barren. You’d have something to put beside the purple participation ribbon you received after a 6th place finish in the 200 meters at the grade 5 track meet. Egad!, you’re astonished to see an empty bowl. No sunken treasure. An illusion? You rub your eyes and pinch yourself, but this is no dream, it’s a living nightmare. You bend over to see if the turd lies dormant, hibernating in the toilet cave. But, it’s not. Could the toilet have sucked it up? Or is the toilet Houdini reincarnated, doing one last miraculous disappearing trick? You wipe, but there is no proof a brown rabbit ever emerged from the top hat that is your ass. The zen-like clarity, the absolution of sins, how could you have been duped?
You hang your head in disappointment. It appears you’ve fallen victim to the phantom poop.