I just had a transformative experience. It was the kind of thing saints fasted in the desert for, the kind of enlightenment middle class Californians take iowaska to achieve. It happened in the bathroom at work.
I had just finished giving the porcelain a good dousing with the old golden sprinkler, when the CEO of my company walked in. We nodded in recognition, but in my mind I was bowing down (arms outstretched) in a manner not unbecoming to a peasant making obeisances to an eastern potentate of yore.
In this moment, I want to give all due respect to this divinely appointed ubermensch without attracting any unnecessary attention. His eyes glide over me with a flicker of recognition and then (saints be praised!) he processes past to do his royal business in the stall. No concern of mine, your majesty. Carry on, your majesty!
I dry my hands and hear the sound of the royal belt buckle being fidgeted with. I’m expecting the torrential sound of his royal urine stirring the waters, a mighty fire hose worth of pressure. Instead, I hear him grunt slightly, and plant his godlike haunches on the seat. He’s pooping!
At the beginning, it sounds like a single shoe dropping into a still pond. Then, as he bears down, the action speeds up. Now it sounds like dozens of potatoes dropping into a large pot on the stove. He exhales with relief, then bears down again. This time, all he brings forth is a wet trombone sound. Another sigh. I hear him pawing at the single-ply roll of toilet paper and I make my escape.
When I get back to my cubicle, I want to tell my colleagues. I want to grab them by their lapels and shout, “He’s human! He poops! We don’t have to listen to him anymore. Behold the god that POOOOOPS!!”
But I don’t do that. I write this semi-anonymous blog instead. Why? Because even though he poops like us, when he’s finished noisily pooping, he has the power to fire my ass.