"Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer." Mark Twain
Every day I am loathed to travel a number of miles in order to exchange a series of movements and minor mental exertion for a sum of money that may or may not be made available to me at the end of the month (or on or around the 1st, whatever that means). This, I've been informed, is what is known as a "job" or "employment", and it takes up much of mine and most peoples day, week, month, entire lives.
Some people have wonderful jobs. They're very happy with their work and look forward to each new day, bouncing out of bed nice and early like a Zebedee dildo. They have enough time for a shower, shave and substantial shit before sitting down for a bowl of granola, cup of fresh Colombian and a leisurely peruse of the paper. They then kiss their parents, spouse, children, dog, cat, fish, marmot, PlayStation, yucca plant, sex doll, coconut with a face drawn on and piss off to work with a smile on their face and their ears full of Chris Evans conducting a phone in about the last time you shoved a spoon up your arse or something.
My routine differs almost entirely (I sometimes do shove a spoon up my arse). I panic myself awake, either from the alarm or from the sheer anxiety of last night's terrible sleep, where I will have invariably been chased by a zombie or a ghost or Bill Oddie (often all three, and often while I'm still awake. Must get my spare keys back off Bill if that's the way he's going to behave).
So now I've shat myself into a state of consciousness I begin my search for clothes, which could be anywhere. They're usually downstairs, don't ask why. I forgo the pleasure of washing and shaving so I can grab a few extra minutes of horrible sleep, so once I've retrieved my clothes from the living room I obtain sustenance from a half pint of dusty water that's been in my room for days, and try to derive as much nutritional energy from my toothpaste as possible.
Without the benefit of a fibre-rich breakfast and a strong cup of bowel warming coffee, my morning turds usually retain the textural consistency of 18th century musket bullets. No matter how much I try to prevent a serious arse projection from occurring mid-commute, my colon decides to keep schtum until I'm on a cramped bus or squeezed onto the overcrowded sausage dispenser we call the UK train service.
Three options are presented to me. Do I attempt a movement in the train station toilets, homosexual graffiti adorning the walls and the paranoid feeling of someone barging in, peering over the top or looking underneath that you can never quite shake no matter how old you are, which prevents comfortable shitting?
Do I risk the terrifying ordeal of shitting on the train? Locked in a claustrophobic, noisy, disorienting room with a toilet that screams at you as it sucks your turds away at 100mph, with a confusing series of button combinations that allows you dry, rinse and soap your hands in that order before finally escaping what has become a gas chamber of your own fecal matter.
Or do I do what I normally do, keep everything sucked in for an hour and a half until I get to work, risking serious internal rupturing and walking like a heron, the struggle from within etched across my face? All for the comforts of a single cubicle toilet, decent ventilation (a window), and 10-20 minutes of getting paid to shit.
It is at this point that my day begins, with the extreme relief of letting loose an enormous bowel movement. I am finally awake, relaxed and comfortable enough to begin my working day. Why don't I get up earlier to avoid this potentially very sticky situation? Well the truth is I enjoy the pain. I need it to get me through. I go to the very brink each and every morning. I see the other side. Everything looks like The Matrix. Morgan Freeman is talking to me. The void stretches out in front of me, right before work. This shit-themed transcendental state is achieved so that I'm both desperate to get to work on time and am fully prepared for anything that may occur over the next 7 hours and 50 minutes. For what could be worse than an arse haemorrhage on the 7.50 to Warrington?
It works for me, better than any fucking bowl of granola ever will.
