The Zen of Potty Humor

I'm a complex individual. Yin and yang. And wang.

When I was twelve, my classroom was in a mobile home. Not one of those fancy schmancy trailers kids get these days when their schools are overcrowded. An actual mobile home they rolled up onto the playground.

You didn't leave the classroom to go to the bathroom. You went into the little bathroom closet. The door was right there in the classroom. The whole class could hear when you flushed. And that pretty little blonde chick, Amy, sat right in front of the door.

I was so embarrassed that she'd hear me taking a piss that I always flushed and then immediately let fly while the toilet's gurgle drowned out the cheek-reddening sounds of my micturation. I mastered the art of silently pissing into the side of the bowl if I outlasted the flush.

It's a habit that's stuck with me. That was twenty years ago, and if I'm not paying attention, I still flush-piss automatically. Funny how that stuff works.

And yet, despite my outrageous urinary bashfulness, today, when it took our industrial strength office toilet three flushes to clear the damage I'd done to it, I felt an immense pride.

My new goal is four flushes.

Yin and yang, baby. And wang.