TAKE THAT FUCKERS

Sitting is a moment of peace in the stall in the office building in the confessional quiet of the work bathroom.  This is where we all come to prostrate ourselves to our sins, bloated executive class with too much ready access to fine food and drink at a minimum.  And here all pretense is set aside, the professional carriage jettisoned in a cloud of flatulent smell and sound, grunting and sneezing, the angry spray of piss at the urinal, the crude joke, the wasteful dispenser-spinning and balling of tissue for ass-smear.

Sitting he wonders how it was when the plane passed through the building.  Was anyone sitting then?  Was there a moment before the fire ball when a passenger got to look out the double-paned plane window and see him in his stall staring back, pants around ankles, both kissing metaphorical asses bye-bye?  He wonders, too, why they make liquid soap the color of cum, standing in the shower every morning with shampoo-cum in his hands ready to smear it in his hair; he wonders how he'll ever not think this thought now that he's thought it.  He thinks about the indignity of it.  In the shampoo / liquid-soap factory do the juvenile, Budweiser-swilling, wife-beating workers stare down at the giant vat of simmering shampoo / liquid-soap / jism and think about how long it would take to fill up this vat with the fruits of their own labors?  Masturbating, later, timing themselves to exactly hit the video's money-shot, to cum along with muscled and shaved cock-owner into the blond hair.  And then soon after deflated and self-loathing, staring at the dime-sized issue, thinking of the giant cum-vat at work.

Work is a giant cum-vat isn't it?

Drying his hands on four-obsessive-compulsive paper towels he shoots and misses at the bathroom's metal trash can and leaves the trash on the floor--a moment of rebellion, of non-conformity.  "Take that, fuckers."