SATIRE

Trapped in the Potty

My rescue dog laughed at me

I stood up from the toilet after pampering my butt with the bidet and subsequently fell facedown to the floor.

If it were anyone else, I would have howled in laughter. I attempted to push myself up and fell back to the cracked linoleum. My legs refused to get back to work.

I normally spend an inordinate amount of time on the toilet. All there is barring visitors is a curtain. It is a literal water closet. It’s not so much hiding from the outside world as much as it is being comfortable.

I turned my head and pressed my face to the floor.

I was about to complain to management about the cleanliness of the floor when I realized — I am management — and that I was now kissing the bathroom floor. Busy coming to terms with my paralysis, I had forgotten — I live in a house with four males.

I could have cleaned it that day and still would have smelled like an unairconditioned gym bathroom floor.

Now sure that I was irreparably injured both outsides and at a cellular level, I clawed my way to the hallway making the most pathetic retreat since my abandoned Prom Ask of my senior year of high school.

If I was in the 19th century, I could have just declared myself a doctor, and now I would be doing gallbladder surgeries and applying leeches to cure my depression. I would have pishawed my fear of infection.

Of course, that wouldn’t have prevented me from falling to an even worse fate on an outhouse floor — maybe even eaten by bears or dragged away by ambitious raccoons.

It is amazing how such affirmations and goals can inspire one to drag oneself off the tiled floor. I pulled myself another inch into the hallway. I could stand to lose a few pounds. It took quite the effort to squelch across the linoleum.

“Tom, would you like to hear about Marshmallow Muffin tops?” The Irish accent I set for Alexa barely took the sting off the passive-aggressive jab from the kitchen.

I obviously forgot to clear my cache of cookies.

I gulped in air, ready to bawl — so what if I can’t fit into my swimsuit, you bitch — Instead of curling up in a chubby-fetus position, the panting I hear is not mine.

I looked up to see my Great Dane, Velma Pearl, staring at me from the end of the hall.

Velma was obviously beating herself up over shirking her duty of protecting me while I was in the bathroom. Envisioning her carrying me out of the bathroom on her back, I waved and cajoled her trying to get her attention.

Velma would obviously have no cajoling. She scratched the floor, spun once, and laid down on the floor, her butt conveniently facing me.

The other dog, Sammy, who is a few years older has gotten a lot more ‘get off my lawn’ towards goings on in the house. He’s a sweetheart, but he will bitch at me for sitting motionless.

Sammy howled and barked at me in between mlems to the face. He was obviously more upset over the fact that I was blocking the path to his preferred water bowl than the fact that his master was incapacitated on the floor.

I felt the pins and needles of feeling coming back to my legs and pushed up with my hands. I pitied the actor who had to play me in the forthcoming reenactment of my harrowing experience. I could not think of an actor who had such range. Probably Kate McKinnon

I valiantly rose to my hands and knees and stood up using the counter island for support. It took more effort than expected.

Okay, maybe Danny DeVito.

Especially since my pants had fallen.

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