What do you look at when you take a shit?
The wall?
The inside of your pant leg?
The crack in the stall?
The ceiling?
No, I bet you look at your phone. That’s what people do in the bathroom. Hell, that’s what people go to the bathroom to do.
Not the doodoo. That’s an accident. You don’t even realize you’ve done it.
You finished pooping, long before you finished scrolling.
And you don’t stop scrolling once you stopped pooping.
Hell no.
You’re still scrolling after you finished wiping.
You sit there, after that turd has exited the circumference of your asshole, and dropped, to the bottom of the bowl, resting peacefully, like a small child counting the seconds he can hold his breath in the pool.
Pants around your ankles, screen cradled in your lap you, you flip through that feed.
Because who shits just for the pleasure of it?
Are you going to live in that moment?
Do you treasure every last drop and inch of that crunch?
Gross.
No.
You swipe left on reality and get lost in someone else's life.
Someone in Costa Rica. Or Browns Social House. Anyone who isn’t cutting a log.
Best you believe, a great big brown chunk of internet traffic is supported by these mindless minutes. That brain dead state of moral ineptitude. We’re already engaging in societies most popular social faux-pas. Why bother to pay attention to it?
We won’t go home and tell our roommates about the amazing dump we had.
The consistency, or the shape of it.
Few poops have been newsworthy. Shits don’t make history.
So who cares? What else are we going to do with that time?
Human beings spend, on average, 92 days on the toilette in their lifetime .
That’s a lot of poops. That’s a lot of shit. That’s a lot of time spent staring at your phone.
I suggest that there is a correlation.
Between pooping, and scrolling. That the two activities are are fond of each other, because there is a similarity.
“The pen is the tongue of the mind” — Horace
I assert that, if the pen truly is the minds tongue, then the thumb is its anus.
No method of communication produced so much shit so quickly, and with such little substance to it.
Our thumbs move quicker than our tongues ever could.
While you sit, pooping, you are also dumping all your excrement on the internet.
To paraphrase Outkast,
“I know you like to think your shit don’t stank, but lean a little bit closer, see roses really smell like YouTube”
No matter how hard you try, you cannot deny that filthy part of yourself. You think you’re sparing yourself the grim brown destiny by hiding away in your cellphone?
Wrong!
It’s all shit in another form.
Not the corn, meat, cheese, bread, fruit and vegetable detritus that runs from the healthy living organism.
The gigabits and terabytes, the kilowatts and all the other unites of measure that make up the nonsensical crap all over the internet.
What? You couldn’t wait until you had a clean asshole before you liked that picture? You filthy animal.
Couldn’t get your pants around your waste before you counted up your followers? Is there an advantage to being in that position?
Can’t you stand fully erect with proper posture before you giggle at that meme?
What the hell is the matter with you?
What on earth is so important that you need to read it, see it, share it, tell someone you like it, don’t like it, so immediately you don’t even have time to take a dump before you do it?
Is nothing sacred to you?
I for one, will not have it.
I take dumps without my phone.
When I shit, I look at the wall ahead of me. Dead on.
And when that turd drops in the bowl, I hear it. And it sounds glorious.
And I don’t think of anything while I’m in there doing it. It’s fucking boring.
I embrace the moment. I love every inch of that crunch.
I do that.
I do that.
