It’s not like I cannot keep my anger in check or that I will, without any concerns, snap at an authoritative figure who could fuck me over. Nope. Being angry does have its own share of perks at some selected places. Airport immigration being a major exception. Nostril flaring, sarcasm, or direct insults should be left behind the immigration line. If, “What is the purpose of your visit, Sir?” is the question, then, “Why the fuck would you care, Brenda?” is certainly not the answer. It’s a pathway to a solitary detention cell, a deportation queue, and in some instances, to an emasculating coloscopy drill.
But if at the same airport, you’re next in the queue to use a public toilet and you can hear someone inside the stall, perhaps on his phone, playing games (hiss, booom, puckkkk, fizz) or possibly looking at memes and laughing loudly with no concern of the increasing queue outside, then sure, you are allowed to use a little bit of your constipated outrage there. Unless, of course, you are one of those naturally calm, and I-can-hold-this-in-me-until-the-end-of-time-because-I-am-the-master-of-my-own-bowel guys. Then, you know what? Good for you! Take your own sweet-time. Stand there in silence, listening to your own heart-beat, and reading an entire thick Sunday times from front-to-back. Read the ads too, matter of fact, get swayed by them and order useless stuff online; hair oil for your beard, a banana cutter, an umbrella cap, books on eugenics. You know, the Ne’er-do-wells of the e-commerce products. Ace all the latest levels of Candy Crush on your phone – re-work on your two stars and three stars. Then settle down on that very spot for lifetime with a swimming pool in your backyard, and a few toddlers on tricycles circling around you, as you grow older every passing second that lasts for a decade, because this piece of poop isn’t coming out. He has cryogenically frozen himself inside, and a few generations from now, he would be dug-out with his pants around his knees for lab testing.
I don’t have patience for shit, in this case or otherwise. You know what I do in these situations? I knock. I knock in a way that rushes this unwelcomed crapper tenant to flush. It’s a rush to flush. And if the guy has a sense of humor, he plays along:
“Knock! Knock!”
“Who is this?”
“Kan Yu.”
“Kan Yu, who?”
“Kan Yu come out, motherfucker? I am dying here! It’s been an hour!”
When they come out, they look at you, as if you forced them to come out of their closets and they weren’t ready yet. As an act of vengeance, they leave their shit unflushed, with corn and watermelon seeds floating around it. I mean, as if his farts were not loud enough, he also decides to leave a thick spiral softy cone. What a loud bass-turd!
Even the toilet seat looks like it’s possessed by the ghost of this guy’s forlorn desires. So, what do I do now? I wrap toilet paper all over my arms; mummy them up! Now, I look like I am eithr ready to get buried Egyptian style, or I am heading out to watch a Horse Race. Wearing a queen’s gown and a fascinator hat that compliment my white tissue paper elbow gloves. Then, I flush the toilet three times to get rid of the demonic smell. Unfortunately, water can only get rid of the skid marks but not the residual vibe of it. So, I also get myself an Ouija board, wrap rosary beads around my palms, light up some beeswax candles, sprinkle holy water, and chant some holy verses to exorcise this acoustically inappropriate and architecturally inefficient fart booth. And holy shit, just like any other horror movie, this also never works for me. There is too much of buildup, but the climax is weak and unsatisfying. Maybe the next one will be better. So, I go and check that next booth out. Until then, my hope, my fandom, and my cabin luggage are all pivoted by the clip-hanger.
Once I settle on the next crapper, minding my own business and the next guy knocks, I am done. I am done halfway like the earth overshoot for each year. I don’t have the ethics of a monk or the stubbornness of an obsessive lover; I can’t let go and I can’t hold on to it. Besides, who is okay dropping a deuce while someone right outside is eavesdropping?
Which reminds me, have you ever accidently opened a door when someone is on the pot? That Narnia door to the other side of the world is absolutely unmagical. You’re now scarred for life, more so, if you make an eye contact with them. My biggest surprise however lies in understanding the incredible self-confidence of these arrogant poopers. They make that “tsk” sound and stare at me, like I forgot to latch that door from inside. Like it’s my fault that their pants are around their knees and their brains are outside of this cubicle.
How do people get confidence to make eye contact in such situations? I once made eye contact with a doctor while talking about my pee problems. It took something from me; I lost my appetite and failed my Math exam.
I also want to know what these people are going to do next? Fight me? How do people fight when they are half naked and half constipated? Do they drop fat bombs on themselves? You know what, I am not really looking for an answer here.
Peterosophy 
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