The Fall Guy

Here's another one, found begrudgingly at the bequest of someone who shall not be named.

Autumn time. I just love it. The amber leaves, the crisp air, the sounds of houses burning down, and the sad screams of suicidal people. Autumn always seems to bring the best out of people. I love autumn. Oh wait. I already mentioned that. Well, all the better to get my point across. So, let's get down to the nitty-gritty. Firstly, I am not a poet. Do not expect the works of Shakespeare, Joyce, and Keats to spew from the walls of this portable commode. The only thing spewing is, well, you get the idea. 

So, autumn. Why is it so great to me? Well, for starters, I burned down my first house in autumn of '81. It was so beautiful. The glow of the flames was just fantastic against the backdrop of drooping autumn leaves. Which reminds me, I've got to go and burn someone else's house down later. It's the 30th anniversary, don't you know. The first time, I was still an amateur. I used kerosene and matches, can you believe that? This year, I'm going high tech. I'm using something like a Nerf gun, except that its not. It's a flamethrower. Yes, I know, it sounds lazy, but remember, this is my 80th house. 

So anyway, the house I'm going to burn down belongs to some widow. Don't judge me. At least I'm doing her a favor. This time tomorrow, she'll be eating cakes in Heaven with her husband. I hope so. Wait a minute. What was that? Oh, it's just some rain trickling in. But why does it look greasy? Phew! The temperature just increased! It's really hot. Wow, this is really redefining my opinion of autumn. I'm sweating like a pig. Huh. Who would've thought you could sweat like a pig here during autumn. Ouch! The wall feels hot! What's happening? There seems to be an orange glow around this commode. Plus, it's now really hot. 

Wait a minute, I think that's fire! Oh, no. I suppose this is what it feels like to be an arson victim. Wow, I really envy them! It's almost like a sauna. I should be charging them for this! I wonder what fire feels like. Ouch! It's hot! I'd better get out of here, I think. Well, time to sign off. Hey! I can't open the door! Help! Someone! Oh wait, why am I writing this down? I should be screaming. Just a second. Okay, no one's hearing me. I'm so dead. Well, this is the end! I just wish I'd done something more with my life. Goodb-

The rest of the transcript is smudged out by black soot and there is what seems to be a human femur jammed in the toilet bowl. What truly happened, we will never know. In the soot is smudged a phrase reading, "Ignis nunquam utor secretum cum."

THE END

Purgatory

It's been a while, but finally I managed to find something good for this blog on the back wall of a Port-A-John in Cuba. Enjoy!

Purgatory. The word describes it all in a nutshell. Imagine working in a factory 8 hours a day not including overtime and also having to pay for it! But that's nothing compared to the purgatory I'm going through. I am having constipated diarrhea, I am losing my house to my kids, and most of all, this portable toilet smells as though it hasn't been emptied in several years. 

Well, I don't have much space to write, seeing as the bottom half of this wall has be blackened by human excrement so I guess I'll just have to keep this short and sweet. Where should I start? Oh yes, purgatory.

I don't know how many of you out there actually want to hear about the purgatory I'm in. But still, here goes. I am a businessman. I'm currently on a business trip to Cuba. I know. Odd, isn't it? Well, let's just say I have my perks. Before any  of you judge me, let's get back to the story. On the flight over here, I had to sit next to the wettest man ever. Even at 12000 feet, he was still sweating like a pig. The seat was drenched and water was soaking through his clothes. And the smell! It was horrible! But not as horrible as the smell of this toilet. 

The moment I got off at the airport, some small kids tipped me and my suitcase into a fountain. My case snapped open and all my manly unmentionables spilled out. I think I managed to get all of them back, but I think I've lost a pair of Calvin Kleins. Well, I suppose I'll buy some later. The odd thing was, I saw a pair of CKs that looked like mine hanging on a line somewhere. But I don't think they sell Calvin Kleins with personal monogrammed initials done in gold thread. At least, I think it was gold thread. For all I know, it could just be some excrement finger painted on. The next thing to happen was just horrible. But for some indescribable reason, I can't remember it. Well, till next time then. Oh wait, there won't be a next time.

Did I mention that the sun here is terrible? I know the brochure said "Get a tan in Cuba!" but I didn't realize that the tan would come with hot sun. Even the cigars here are expensive! Come on! We pay a bomb for cuban cigars in the U.S., but here in Cuba we still have to pay a bomb? Where do these cigars come from? China? I don't know. In fact, everything advertised has turned out to be a sham! So where will I go next? Ireland, I suppose. To see if their shamrocks have now been replaced by real rocks, i suppose.

What's that sound? It sounds like a construction site coming to life. I'd better get out of here. But no! I must make my mark on this portable toilet! Just one minute...

At this point, there is a small score scratched into the plastic that looks like the opening bar of Beethoven's 7th and a small inscription that reads I regret nothing, except maybe the Cuban cigars.

And below that, there is another inscription gouged in reading, "Quid sibi vult ista wikipedia stercus semper referendo?"