Shitorium
“Well it’s about time to housebreak the child!” the parents decide, so they buy a little potty at the pet shop. The thing just growls at the child, following him everywhere. The little boy is so scared that he locks himself in the closet, his tears are wetting the musty smelling clothes.
This method might seems barbarous to you but in other places it is common to solder a pot to the child’s back: the kids then crawl up and down the room like giant snails, and when the urge comes they have to work themselves into the most uncomfortable positions to plump their waste products into the potty. They are standing on their hands, with legs pointing forward, they look like scorpions ready to attack and the parents flash lights at them, watching the pits and the bulges of the wrapped little bodies, the lines of the bones under pale skin.
These kids usually grow up to be artists. Their tricks evoke amazement in the audience who clap so hard that they almost shit themselves, but of course, in the final moment the memories come back about the lonely hours they spent in the closet many years ago and their anuses close up and they watch with envy the artist who can freely defecate. Thence springs the old joke about the artist who walks into the bar and asks the bartender where he might find the washroom and the bartender tells him to go shit himself.
*
I became house-trained when I was two years old. But lately I’m suffering from some hygienic problems: every time I sit on the toilet to do my business I feel something gruesomely enormous is trying to leave my bowels. After an hour of straining I give birth to my one and a half year old self. The kid keeps running up and down in my house, laughing wildly. He defecates in corners, on the carpet, then he sticks his little hands into the poop and smudges everything with his dirty fingers. I try to catch him, but he is too fast. In the end I collapse exhausted, and when I wake up the kid has already crawled back into my ass.
What a little goblin. Other times, when I have company he reaches out his hands and he tosses shit onto my underwear just as if he were playing with sand. It’s quite difficult to explain that I wasn’t the one who shitted my pants and of course no one believes me. A doc finally sends me to a rehabilitation center. “Don’t be ashamed, this is quite common you know. Sometimes people forget how to eat or shit properly, but we’ll teach you again!”
In the shitorium tv headed nurses put me in nice fresh powdery diapers. The screens on their necks are showing movies about women and men defecating into various toilets. They are really trying to carve the right way into my brain. A doctor keeps telling me that if I don’t co-operate he’ll have to surgically implant a potty into my body, as he did with a former patient. He’s showing me pictures and ultrasound recordings: the poor fellow’s anus is all sewed together, his rectum is now joined with a pot inside his belly. They cut him open once a month to empty the implant.
I become friends with a nurse. At nights, she sits on my bed and starts to hum a song to the child inside me. Sometimes, I want to kiss this woman. But buttholes of strangers are gaping in the screen where her face should have been. So I just fall asleep. The angels dip their toilet-paper wings into the stool of the night.
This method might seems barbarous to you but in other places it is common to solder a pot to the child’s back: the kids then crawl up and down the room like giant snails, and when the urge comes they have to work themselves into the most uncomfortable positions to plump their waste products into the potty. They are standing on their hands, with legs pointing forward, they look like scorpions ready to attack and the parents flash lights at them, watching the pits and the bulges of the wrapped little bodies, the lines of the bones under pale skin.
These kids usually grow up to be artists. Their tricks evoke amazement in the audience who clap so hard that they almost shit themselves, but of course, in the final moment the memories come back about the lonely hours they spent in the closet many years ago and their anuses close up and they watch with envy the artist who can freely defecate. Thence springs the old joke about the artist who walks into the bar and asks the bartender where he might find the washroom and the bartender tells him to go shit himself.
*
I became house-trained when I was two years old. But lately I’m suffering from some hygienic problems: every time I sit on the toilet to do my business I feel something gruesomely enormous is trying to leave my bowels. After an hour of straining I give birth to my one and a half year old self. The kid keeps running up and down in my house, laughing wildly. He defecates in corners, on the carpet, then he sticks his little hands into the poop and smudges everything with his dirty fingers. I try to catch him, but he is too fast. In the end I collapse exhausted, and when I wake up the kid has already crawled back into my ass.
What a little goblin. Other times, when I have company he reaches out his hands and he tosses shit onto my underwear just as if he were playing with sand. It’s quite difficult to explain that I wasn’t the one who shitted my pants and of course no one believes me. A doc finally sends me to a rehabilitation center. “Don’t be ashamed, this is quite common you know. Sometimes people forget how to eat or shit properly, but we’ll teach you again!”
In the shitorium tv headed nurses put me in nice fresh powdery diapers. The screens on their necks are showing movies about women and men defecating into various toilets. They are really trying to carve the right way into my brain. A doctor keeps telling me that if I don’t co-operate he’ll have to surgically implant a potty into my body, as he did with a former patient. He’s showing me pictures and ultrasound recordings: the poor fellow’s anus is all sewed together, his rectum is now joined with a pot inside his belly. They cut him open once a month to empty the implant.
I become friends with a nurse. At nights, she sits on my bed and starts to hum a song to the child inside me. Sometimes, I want to kiss this woman. But buttholes of strangers are gaping in the screen where her face should have been. So I just fall asleep. The angels dip their toilet-paper wings into the stool of the night.
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