> KAREN AT TARGET WANTED ME AND THE AUTO FLUSH STOLE MY GIRTHY MASTERPIECE AND SPANKY WEEPS

gather round, tards, for this is the tale of the greatest morning a man of my station has ever had, and like all great tales it ends in robbery.

act one. the brewers won the world series. i went to target like a grown man to buy baseball cards, which is what grown men do when the sweep gets thrown away and cooper's legendary home run gets turned into a footnote by shane drohan. the cashier was named karen. sixties. skinny. decent feminine hair, genuinely decent, like she still sets it on a tuesday. a face the sun has been working on since the carter administration, weathered like a picnic table at a county park. nice lady though. nicest lady in the building.

and then she spoke. a voice so high it should only be audible to the dogs in the pet aisle. "hoping to get some good ones?"

out loud i said "yeah." inside i said: no karen. i hope every single card in this pack is shane drohan in panties. lace ones. i hope topps printed a whole insert set of him bent over the mound in a thong the color of a blown sweep, so i can stare at it and feel what milwaukee felt.

she smiled. she made eye contact. held it. and i walked out to the parking lot with a pack of cards and the quiet confidence of a man who believes, with zero evidence, that he just made a sixty-something target cashier wet. i did not. she has seen men like me every day since 1983. she smiled because i paid. that is the whole romance. i am going back tomorrow.

act two. the stall.

next morning the body called. and friends, i delivered. not a shyt. a ceremony. large girthy logs, plural, stacked like cordwood in a cabin up north, the kind of shyt you name. the kind you text your loved ones about. i stood up, turned around, reached for the phone to document it for you degenerates, because you deserve to see what excellence looks like.

and the auto flush took it.

no warning. no countdown. the sensor saw me stand and decided it was the curator of my legacy. whoosh. gone. the finest work of my life swirling into the municipal system like the brewers' sweep into drohan's glove. no picture. no proof. you will simply have to believe me, the way you believe in god's name in vein.

and here's the part that hurts the most: it came out so clean i would not have needed to wipe. i wiped anyway, out of respect, the paper came back white as karen's dentures. a ghost shyt. a perfect crime. a clean getaway, and the toilet was my accomplice and my betrayer.

act three. spanky weeps.

because somewhere out there is spanky, the high priest of the anti work shyt church, who would be inconsolable reading this. the man has a policy. hydeparker put it to a vote years ago in the CI POLL (1441870): "i know that spanky hates the idea of work shytting, and i know that i love shytting at work." and when hyde suggested even spanky would shyt at work before he'd shyt his pance, the answer came back cold as a porcelain lid: "No. This happened only once in 10 years from 2010-2020. I just went home early and shat at home."

read that again. ten years. one incident. and instead of using the free toilet, the free paper, the free fabuloso, he LEFT. drove home. clenched across town like a man smuggling a bowling ball through customs, so his own toilet could have the honor. hyde had to issue a "sincere apology" for not realizing how deeply spanky held his "no shytting at work" policy. substantially anonymous said it best: "let work pay to clean up a triple flusher." spanky would rather pay for his own triple flusher. that is not frugality. that is religion.

and every time hyde posted "it's 3:57am, time to shyt at work!!!" (and there are DOZENS, 1438043, 1440149, 1443150, 1472053, 1481222, a whole liturgical calendar of dawn shyts), spanky's people arrived like the inquisition. "this is very bad for creating shareholder value. GET TO WORK!" "reported to management, prepare your defense to HR." "there's no defense. prepare your final words."

spanky, i have no defense. here are my final words: i shat at work, it was girthy, it was clean, the robot flushed it, and i would do it again tomorrow at 3:57am. i am a man who believes a cashier wanted him and a toilet respected him, and i was wrong about both. but the shyt was real. the shyt was the only honest thing that happened to me all week.

somewhere a drohan card is sitting in a pack at target. somewhere karen is saying "good ones?" to another idiot. and somewhere spanky is driving home at 2pm with his cheeks clenched, because a man's toilet is his castle and the office is enemy soil.

rest in peace, logs. you deserved to be photographed.