The Stranger
I’ve noticed recently that every time I use the toilet, I have to replace the toilet paper. I live in a suite with four people. A normal person uses the toilet eight times a week (every day and twice on Sunday for good luck). I’m no rocket scientist, but four people should not go through an entire roll of toilet paper every day. Not even rocket scientists use that much toilet paper, and they are notorious for their gaseous explosions. Point is, some stranger is obviously crapping in my toilet. It would be one thing if a friend or relative were making use of the facilities in my suite, but for a man I have never met to rest his corpulent and pasty thighs upon my toilet seat is nothing short of an outrage.
This is deeply unsettling. I don’t like it when strangers crap in my toilet. Hell, I don’t like it when strangers crap anywhere in my house. I just don’t like the sound of that. I also don’t like the sound of my toilet being flushed upwards of 20 times an hour. What the hell did you eat, man?
I must defend my toilet from invasion. Because my toilet is my oasis.
Since I was very young, I’ve relished my time on the toilet. Like many people, I do a lot of my reading on the toilet. But I also use the alabaster throne to relax. Unlike the other seats in the house, the toilet seat is a seat in which you can lean back—as far as you like— without having to worry about cracking your sensitive pate on the floor. The bathroom is also a pleasant place to repair when traveling. On a long airplane ride, I like to spend about half an hour on the toilet, reading the little warning signs and working on my deep breathing. On a plane, that bathroom is the only place you can get some privacy.
And privacy is vital to me. That’s why I’m so incensed about this phantom toilet-terrorist. He’s invading my personal space. I won’t stand for that. I can’t stand for that. I am unable to stand for that. Not without wiping first.
So Mr. Mystery Shitter (or Professor Mystery Shitter, as the case may be), I am taking this opportunity to let you know that I’m on to you. I bet you’re reading this right now. Perhaps you’re even reading this on my toilet.
Whoever is using my toilet is eating a good three pounds of celery for each meal. Everyone knows that eating roughage makes you shit like a champion. You’re a champion of a bowl, sir. But it’s not the Super Bowl. It’s my toilet bowl.
Stop despoiling my pristine bowl. It’s terribly gauche to use another man’s toilet. It’s also considered impolite. So I beseech you, oh Phantom Crapper, to cease this base attack on my toilet.
It’s been said that charity begins at home. Today, charity can begin at your home. Instead of crapping in my toilet, crap in your own. For if we all crap only in our own houses, then we shall all be kings on our own thrones. And what a glorious thing that would be.