RuKsaK

I’ve grown tired of international toilet week pretty fast. I’m bored, as I’m sure you are, so this is the last day. The rest of the week has been cancelled forever, until otherwise. Alright?

The Doggy said I should write about England. British toilets are the only ones which have embarrassed me when dumping in them. Like many British traditions, the toilets are way superior to my anal produce and, actually, me. One friend calls doing a shit ‘dropping off some friends at the pool.’ English bogs made me feel like I was driving them there in a Nissan Sunny.

Russia made me proud of my crap – even in my most debased productions Russian toilets deserved them. Revenge I guess.
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A mouse lives by its heartbeats. It gets about two million of them crunched in to a lifetime and then pegs it. It's the same for every one of them.

We are the same. Our lives measured in kilos of faeces. Every flush a swing of the pendulum. The s-bend clocking off another few days with each sucking down.

We don’t get older in out sleep or in offices, up ladders, walking to shops. We don’t get older worrying, laughing, spending. We grow old in toilets. That’s where God gets us. Eking out days and months through our shits and pisses. A grey hair is a hundred turds. Laughter lines are strained craps. Baldness in men shows bouts of diarrhoea.

Old men die wearing plastic bags strapped down their legs, babies come in letting it all spill in their Pampers. There’s yer symmetry for those who need it.

I’ve grown and philosophised in bogs. Figured neologisms. Attempted crosswords, ideas. Solved and forgotten. Drained hangovers. Passed blood. Known real fear, true embarrassment, redemption. Squatted whilst in love, depressed, bored, worried, paranoid. I became an adult in a toilet and will die in one, or shortly after one.

This is all true.

Hey, which kilo are you on?

Thursday, November 25, 2004

International Toilet Week killed off