I experienced #hell today on my way to class as my day went horribly wrong like something out of Joe Dirt or Deuce Bigelow or The Bachelor Party. One of those defining moments in life that reminds you there is no god and nature has a fucking dry, raunchy sense of humor. An experience so degrading and embarrassing that it made me retreat to my safe space, movies, except it was Toy Story and a mission going horribly wrong with characters screaming and yelling to abort the mission. Then, just as I was about to turn and run in shame, then as if this horror story that my life has suddenly become couldn’t get any worse, it does as reality decides this shit-show needs more character drama and Rio-Linda-Joe shows up and calls my name and asks me when my next class was. I was on the way to class when this situation developed and my life suddenly threatened to descend in to the embarrassing chaos like in the beginning of the New Guy where the principal grabs and breaks the guys aroused penis. I was so distraught, I couldn’t remember that shit because of the overwhelming shit-storm I was currently dealing with almost made me wish in a higher power. And not the bullshit sold in “The Secret,” either. If I was a Muslim, I would pray to Allah to get me out of this. Catholic, Mary and Jesus and finally to God himself. Protestant, to God in Jesus’ name would I pray. Job level tribulations hath he unleashed upon me, his most unfaithful servant.
Buddha’s karmic retribution was unleashed upon me, simply, because I laughed at my smoking buddy, who said tobacco makes him have to take a shit. He fled our session clenching his ass cheeks because I rolled him an American Spirit from loose tobacco and dismissed his dire warning, so now, here I sit, broken hearted, needing to shit, after I had sharted. On the way to #yoga class. Aborted mission, beyond my control. Command command control, this is Major Tom. Houston, we have a problem. #Yoga and #sharting are like 0 rings and the space shuttle Challenger and cold weather and should never, ever be mixed when it can be avoided.
So, when, I got to the student center restroom, of course, I encountered a line for the stall. This Murphy’s law in action which really didn’t phase me as I had been intending to change anyway, from denim shorts to more yoga appropriate clothing. Sharting just took the wind out of my sails as this ship sailed head-on in to the doldrums, the horse latitudes. While waiting in line all wet and squishy, farts are not supposed to have lumps and all those nuts lately, I think half a peanut made it through. OK. I have finished shitting. More in a few minutes. See ya on the other side.
When I packed the shorts, I thought I had tossed in more underwear, but nope. I didn’t and that means I had to go commando.
Yeah, you got the right reference or did you? Someone stacked rocks in a rock garden as an art installation. Zen. While I was thinking, I couldn’t help but meditate on how many people don’t follow the right bathroom etiquette and violate the social contract by talking to you upon entering and exiting and pissing with their hands locked behind their heads police stop style while talking about cold water. They have waterless urinal jackass.
What is the American male and female restroom culture? If the door’s locked don’t knock. I hate when people knock or go further and ask you questions. I don’t fucking answer damnit. I am taking a shit. Fuck you. They call it a throne for a reason, its why you pray to it when you are sick. It’s alone time. So, yeah. I didn’t go to yoga today.