Midwestern, white people are too nice. Too courteous, too polite, too genteel, too damn accepting of any and all faults that you may harbor within that pitiful shell you call “self”.
I hate it.
Because that means this “courtesy” needs to be reciprocated in order for you not to feel like the biggest asswipe this side of the Dixie Line, even if you really are! I should know, I is.
Where’s the relevancy?
Check it, while doing work at the student union building I felt a rumbling in my stomach. An evil rumbling. A dark, archaic-maelstrom of anguish type of rumbling. Needless to say I began packing up my things in order to make the trek down a few winding halls to the men’s shit-pository (Eh, eh like it?), that is…until it moved. Where at one second this foul demon was festering in the pit of my stomach it had made the quantum leap to my lower intestine. Shit was about the go down… pun most definitely intended. I hid my most valuable things in my bookbag, tossed it under a couch and began speed walking in the direction of the restroom. However, what was supposed to be a 30 second walk for some fucked up spatial-relativity reasoning only apparent to Carl Sagan, it felt like it took a goddamn millenia. Each slap of my sandals on the cold, Venetian marble reverberated through my lower half like tremors, each vibration acting like a deranged eco-terrorist trying to blow the flood gates to a dam.
As I FINALLY got to the doors of the men’s restroom I notice that the ballroom to my right was being rented out by some lucky couple for their wedding reception, at that moment I noticed to myself:
“Wow those table centerpieces are super tacky-…”
Throwing the door open, hand in position to drop my shorts at whichever toilet bowl readily presented itself I was greeted to the sight of two PANT LESS caucasian males calmly dressing for what looked like a wedding reception replete with some tacky ass centerpieces. Calmly walking my way to the only toilet stall in the restroom, I quietly slid the stall lock in place and prepared myself for the forthcoming battle.
But I had to wait.
For you see I couldn’t just let loose this sumbitch and have these gents walking out smelling like doodoo and pity. Believe me, in Miami I wouldn’t have even hesitated for a second. I have no shame in blowing a dookie regardless of whose presence I’m in, because in Miami this type of restroom irreverence is expected. I can recall in high school, walking into the restroom and seeing a dude taking a shit in a urinal. Was I offended? No, just worried of all the bacteria dude was spreading on his cheeks by rubbing them on a urinal wall. Have some sense man, at least give yourself a few inches of breathing room for Christs sake.
So as I sat hunched upon my porcelain throne I waited. Waited for these fucks to finish dressing and get the hell out so I could do my damn business. But nah, life ain’t ever that simple. These fella’s had to take their sweet time to get dressed up for their reception, it’s kind of a big deal ya know, a wedding reception? Which left me dumbfounded and constipated as to why the hell would you put it off until minutes before the actual event. This was all compounded with the issue white people and their propensity to make small talk. These fellas had one of the most engaging conversations on winchester tie-knots that I was ever forced to bear witness to. Meanwhile I’m being paced through the levels of hell as this malevolent turd is trying to claw its way through my colon. I’m sweating, I’m fading in and out of consciousness, I’m wondering if this was how Elvis felt like before dipping on existence. Finally conversation began to die down, belt buckles were clasped, and I heard the emancipating slam of the door closing… and I was uplifted to a better place.
I’m not going to bother going into detail of the war-crimes committed on that toilet. Even Jesus had to turn away, grimacing, from our world for a moment. But I have no inhibitions from telling you all that I walked out of that restroom with a noticeable limp.