Whether you’re a child, adult, or Navy Seal, you are never more vulnerable than when you are taking a shit. Your pants are down, and your body is filling up a toilet bowl as a sign of surrender after spending hours fighting whatever it is you poisoned it with. At this moment, nothing else in the world matters. You just pray that you can make it through this shitty experience without causing any permanent damage. The only positive thought you can conjure up is that you are home alone, and that there is no one around to hear your embarrassing pleas for help.

But then you hear it. Movements on the other side of the bathroom door. Close? Maybe. Nothing’s for sure except for the realization that you are not alone. Sooner or later, that someone that is invading your house is going to find you, and with an ass full of shit, you’re an easy target. Dying on the toilet is NOT an option. Who do you think you are? Elvis?

So what do you do now? Without hesitation, all those years of training you’ve never actually received start kicking in. You look for things that could become weapons. Your toothbrush isn’t sharp, but it’ll do. It’s hard for an attacker to kill you when his eyes are full of shampoo. Suddenly you regret buying L’Oreal no tear shampoo (But you’re worth it too).

If this guy (or hopefully sexy girl [enter sexual fantasies here]*Interrupt fantasy to remind yourself that now is not the time for a chubby*) wants to get physical, then we can get physical. You go to stretch and limber up for that Roundhouse kick you saw on an episode of Human Weapon when you realize something. Your leg is numb from being on the toilet for so long.

The fix should be simple, right? Just wipe and prepare for battle. But the plot thickens. This possible murderer still doesn’t know you’re there. He might still think the house is empty. Any movement on your behalf could hinder that very notion. When you tear off a square of toilet paper, everyone and their mother hears it. That’s not very subtle.

New plan: don’t wipe. Just clinch and pick up those pants. You can wait till the deed is done, or even better, use the assassins face to wipe your ass. But what if you lose, and he kills you. Then you’ll be the guy who died with poo poo pants. You can just see it now. The coroner’s laughing around your dead corpse “Hey look! This kid shit his pants!” They’ll never even find your murderer because the detectives can’t stop laughing.

Then it’s obvious. Just sit there, perfectly still, and hope he doesn’t walk into the bathroom. Now you remember that it’s Monday…Moe’s Monday. The same reason you were there in the first place is the very same reason you are going to die. It looks like this shit is going to kill you after all. Can you believe that shit! He can probably smell it from a mile away. You could put the fan on, or you could just shout “Hey, I’m in here. Wait while I change into something more comfortable!” Maybe try flushing the toilet. No no, unless you’re trying to warn the town of an incoming tornado, then that loud siren won’t help. Silence is the key. But what if he does find you and decides to kill you by giving you a swirly in the toilet. Yeah that’s going out in a blaze of glory, drowning in a bowl of your own shit.

“Hello Honey. We’re home.” Oh thank God, it’s just your parents!

Oh thank God it’s just your parents? That strong dose of reality suddenly kicks in when you realize you’re in your twenties living at home with your parents because you had to move back home after college due to the fact that that Bachelor’s degree that would “get you any job you could dream of” suddenly doesn’t work.

“Did you remember to get Hot Pockets?!” She replies that she forgot, again. At this point you wish it was a murderer.


Dusty Cummings