Tuesday, February 23, 2010

afghans don't wear socks

One thing that I have never taken for granted is a clean, flushable toilet. Ever since I was a kid, even before I endured situations that lack such luxurious accommodations, I have always regarded them with great appreciation and respect. It was innate; I didn’t need to be taught that good working toilets are such precious commodities.

Now don’t get me wrong: there’s nothing wrong with leaning against a tree or squatting over a hole. I’m all for isometric quadricep strengthening exercises. But something about hovering over a crudely-made waste receptacle just doesn’t jive with me. Especially when it’s already filled with remnant digestings of those who have gone before me.

And oh God, the worst is when you have to go during the day.
Come to think of it, going at night is no better. Creeping around in the dark, praying that it was really mud you just stepped on, pulling up your pants with your flashlight in your mouth when you suddenly realize which hand you just used to place it there.

But during the day, man. It’s horrifying. You sit down, waiting for salvation to come, all ready and relaxed (except for the quads, of course). And then you feel it, that peculiar tingling sensation. You know you should have double checked.

That primitive excuse for a toilet had deceived you by hiding the hoards of flies that are now trying to crawl up your ass.
They’re not just flies, man.
You wiggle and shift your weight around.
They’re the spawn of human shit.
You flail your arms and thrash your head wildly.
Don’t worry about who’s staring at you.
You shut your lips tightly to keep them from flying into your mouth—at the small cost of the festering vapors you now have to smell.
This is about survival.

Toilets, man. God bless ‘em.

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