Now that I have a job, my poops are no longer my own. I must dole them out carefully when I’m not helping customers or daydreaming about Elisha Cuthbert and tartar sauce.
I’ve realized that poops can be a highly valued commodity in the workforce; they’re kind of like brown, stinky tokens that can be exchanged for a free break. I mean, given a choice, every boss in the world will want you to take a dump in a toilet instead of on a customer’s chest. That’s just good service. And by carefully timing your bowel movements, you can effectively double your break time. Granted, you’ll be spending that time perched on a toilet straining your little heart out, but beggars can’t be choosers.
I work with a lot of women so I’m particularly careful of leaving incriminating poop stains on the toilet seat. I figure that I will be the prime suspect in any bowel chicanery since men naturally have the dirtiest butts. To avoid unsightly smears I always create a makeshift seat cover using spit and toilet paper. The single bathroom stall is so small that it’s impossible to sit straight down and instead I have to move down at a left to right angle. But if I move too quickly then the resulting air-flow knocks over my MacGuyvered seat cover and then the risk of smear stains rises exponentially. To combat this I have to hover my butt mere inches from the seat at a roughly 45-degree angle. That’s when I snap my butt down with the speed of an attacking cobra snake.