Feeling Kinda Dad

 The image on the left is an excerpt from an online chat showing my response to a colleague at work after I had excused myself to go to the toilet, which the reader may assume correctly was a “number two.” The first word is a liberated assertion, perhaps stoic celebration. The line after is a critique of its appearance, which seems inextricably pointed, respectively, towards my social confidence and personality. Seems like there is a self-evident correlation between fecal length-girth and discerned and/or sensual gratification of the experience. If this sounds familiar to other carnal physiological activities which ought to occur daily, you’re welcome perv. That the male is self-penetrated, albeit inversely, by their own shit may be our best chance in having a "vagina" of some sorts. We're all aware of penis envy, but frankly, I wish I had another place to hide my cocaine filled condoms. If any of this seems Freudian, or distasteful, we can point the finger to unintelligent design: that the mouth and anus are both openings of a long and squiggly tube. Notice that the letter D is next to the letter S on a keyboard, therefore “dad” can mistakenly replace “sad” in the absolute evaluation of one’s life. Or, I don't know, maybe he’s just been on my mind lately.