(Noted Tom Dinard biographer Pony Marmon here unearths and for the first time shares with the literary world one of Dinard’s many pieces submitted to — and rejected by — McSweeneys.net for its “Short Imagined Monologues” feature. “Never could figure them out,” Dinard mumbled to Marmon shortly before freezing to death while covering the Iditarod race for Scientology.org. “Reckon they couldn’t much figure me out neither.” –P.M.)
Hey, Mr. Tall Drunk Accountant-Looking Stranger, presently perched above my still waters while in the middle of a colossal colon outpouring: Let me ask you something. Has it ever occurred to you, here in this house with your wife and in-laws (who barely know my owners but somehow finagled an invitation for this Turkey Day shindig at the country club) to even look at the foreign commode you’re about to ransack before you squat, let loose and sigh?
Do you ever think, “Shit, maybe not every plumbing system has the deep-throat capacity of Sasha Grey or the Boeing-787 throttle power to gulp down and seismically spit the fecal log of eighteen-pound organic bird, spiral honey ham, sweet potato-and-marshmallow monstrosity, Ritz-cracker-coated green bean casserole, Stove Top stuffing, Potato Buds with nine sticks of butter, cranberries, brown gravy, white gravy, slightly yellowing and curdling-up gravy, pumpkin pie, chocolate cream pie and a quart of Cool Whip straight into the sewer stream? Or did you just assume that I’m going to perform as brilliantly as the intestine-stripping-strength john you always seem to sprint to at Home Depot while you’re eyeballing the hex wrenches to see which size fits the lawn mower that you pay a guy named Aurelio to use?
Well, let me tell you something, you penis-puffer. Your brain must be as petrified as the month-old turd tar dangling from your graying ass-hairs. Let me put it in your language, bro. I wasn’t born yesterday. It was actually 1972 when this green-shingled palace of plywood puke was barely thatched together, and the contractor who crammed me in the common half-bath on the first floor was a glue-sniffing soon-to-be-divorcee with about an hour to install me before doing 90 in his Dodge Dart to make it to Pimlico in time for a “mortal lock” in the fourth.
In other words, you can yuk it up all you want in front of the Lions game, you can cannonball shots of Makers and make triple-bogey after triple-bogey on Wii golf while wearing a Mark Spitz dick-suit for all I care, but the fact remains that if you think you’re going to plunk your sweaty tush down on my seat and get it all over with as if nothing happened, think the fuck again.
You know why? Jesus Stanley Christ, let me list the reasons. 1. The two smiling mongoloids playing that Perry Como record and bragging about their new Tempurpedic California king while you’re trying to lip-read Al Michaels are four months behind on the mortgage for this dump and haven’t thought about updating the plumbing since the Carter Administration. 2. Even if they did have the notion to occasionally take off the tank lid or turn off the water to eliminate the dripping noise they’ve been ignoring for about six and a half weeks, they might think there’s a problem. 3. I’ve never seen a bowel movement larger and wider than the one you’re birthing in my berth. And let’s not forget the best one: 4. There’s no plunger in here … or in any other room in the house.
Happy Thanksgiving, craplord. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.
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Think Jesus just let his shit run while he was being crucified? Bet he did.
Great expose on the thoughts of a toilet! If John Crapper only knew the monster he was creating.