Bathroom Monologue: Cover, Bathroom Monologues Anthology, Vol. 1

Public restroom. Teal tiles, grey doors. Close-up on one stall. Door is wide open. Overweight man in blue jeans and a Hawaiian shirt is blocking the toilet, facing away from us. One hand is clearly taking care of business, while the other is gesturing. He appears to be addressing someone. There is no back wall to this stall. Instead, we see an amphitheatre from the conductor's point of view (toilet as podium?). The amphitheatre is packed with very well dressed couples of distinguished age, looking his way with hushed interest.

Bathroom Monologue: This Monologue Brought to You by: Food Poisoning

Everybody expected Yusef Amin Jr. to quit after a week. Half a month at the most. He was a spoiled teen riding a trust fund. He came from money, slept in money, and didn’t need to go to college or worry for his future. He was destined for luxury. That he wanted to work in a soup kitchen was just a phase. He’d signed up on a moral kick, for the emotional high of feeling good for doing good. He’d be back on X-Box Live as soon as he felt better about himself.

But he lasted a week. Then two. Then an entire month. His co-workers were shocked to see him return after the time a patron stabbed him in the kidney. The patron had waited outside, hearing about Yusef Jr.’s wealth. He carjacked him and left him with a flesh wound for his troubles. Police never found the assailant. Yet Yusef Jr. came back, and he came back to the same kitchen. He came back with a vengeance, doubling his hours at the local shelter (while wearing cheaper clothes to work). He came back maxing out credit cards to keep blankets in the shelter and chicken on the menu.

Yusef Amin Jr. was stabbed three times over his entire career of hands-on philanthropy. The attacks were unrelated to each other, mere hazards of working in bad areas.

Exiting the hospital for the third time, he saw a guy playing his guitar with his case lying suggestively on the sidewalk. Yusef Jr. dropped his pocket change in. Yusef Sr. chastised that giving to the poor only encouraged them to remain as they were.

Jr. responded, “Yeah, dad, I’m sure this ninety cents will totally validate his life’s dream of wearing bags over his feet and not knowing if he’ll have a roof over his head tonight.”

Then Jr. dropped the contents of his wallet into the case.

Sr. cut Jr. off financially. It did not last, not with Mrs. Amin worrying about her son, but it sent a clear message.

So Yusef Jr. went to college, studying politics and social studies, while keeping up social work as an extracurricular. The story of his third attack circulated so much that he inevitably had to explain why he kept coming back to shelters. He said he was born with a deep-seated terror of poverty. He was not afraid that the guy lying on the pavement would mug him, or that the needy veteran on the steps would go crazy if he approached. If anything, Yusef Jr. was terrified of the notion of people being poor. It chilled him; just thinking about it made his hands cold. For him, helping out at a soup kitchen was entirely selfish, just as everyone said, except that the selfishness manifested in needing to feel he did something. That was his moral kick, and he would never stop kicking.

Bathroom Monologue: Racing to Enlightenment

“In my search for the divine I didn’t encounter the Creator, but I did encounter an allosaurus. I converted to athleticism – while running.”

Bathroom Monologue: For the sake of brevity

Something serious. A humorous twist on the serious statement. Something absurd. Something more absurd. Something absurd masquerading as something serious. Something that goes over your head. Something that goes over my head. Vaguely funny closer.

Bathroom Monologue: Sometimes life is like...

Always the sewer! Always the frickin' sewer! "Lo, there are mutant alligators in the sewer." "Lo, there are werewolves in the sewer. Better take your expensive silver weapons down there." "Lo, there's a Satanic cult plotting to overthrow the government. They're at that country club you like so much. Stop them and you’ll get free lunch." "Really?" "No, sewer." Why do I always have to fight things in the sewer? Why are they all down there? There's nothing there! It's the same thing; they go down there, I go down there, they die, I fall in a vat of unmentionables, and I spend the next week chewing antibacterial soap to get the taste out of my mouth. Well not this time! This time Hung Lo thought ahead! I wired the sewage treatment plant with enough TNT that if anything survives the blast, it deserves to overthrow humanity. It's the devil hunter equivalent of flushing a cherry bomb. It’ll knock out every pipe and support beam under the city. In a half hour, this city will be under water. Brown water. Let's see how you like having to shower in Listerine!

Bathroom Monologue: Justice, like lighting!

I've never understood doing what voices tell you. Most of the voices are children. If a live child tells me to go strangle the neighbor's dog, I tell it to get the heck off my lawn. The disembodied child voice isn't even on my lawn. I'll tell it the Easter Bunny isn't real and it'll run away crying.

If it's an adult voice, I'll reason with it.

“No, I won't strangle the neighbor's dog. It's cute and never craps on my part of the sidewalk."

Sometimes these voices claim authority. If it claims to be the voice of God demanding some violent sacrifice, well, that's the easiest case of all. I’ll tell it, “No. You do it.” I mean, it's God, right? “Heck, don't just strangle it. I want a bolt of lightning out of a clear sky to fry that frickin’ mongrel.”

Busted. It was one of those disembodied kid voices with a voice modulator. I taught those punks.

Bathroom Monologue: Jane Thoroughs

When Jane Thoroughs reached the level of literary fame that meant she didn’t have to pitch ideas, but just write stories and mail them to an editor, she whipped up “The Banquet of Crow, v.2.” And because she was at a level of literary fame that meant she had any literary fame at all, the editor of the small periodical rushed to make it his cover without asking what “v.2” meant. It was probably one of those many literary flourishes the greats liked so much.

He’d wished he’d asked about that and several other things when some very angry people from Dorothy Parker’s estate wrote to remind him, if he’d ever had it in mind, that the late luminary had written something called “The Banquet of Crow” in 1957. They also wrote to ask if he’d noticed how similar the stories were, paragraph for paragraph. They’d said “word for word,” but Jane pointed out that not all the words were the same.

Glimpsing at them side-by-side, paragraph-to-paragraph made it seem like the stories were the same. But this was only because of careful word selection; the geography of the paragraphs looked identical because Jane had rewritten parts syllable-by-syllable, so that only by reading the actual words would you notice they were different. Read aloud, they even had the same tone.

“The Banquet of Crow” was about a whiny housewife who couldn’t get over the fact that her husband had abandoned their tedious, loveless marriage. “The Banquet of Crow v.2” also about an abandoned housewife who went through the same parties, got hooked up on the same failed date by her friends, and saw the same over-pampering psychologist as the madame of “The Banquet of Crow.”

But “v.2” was more sympathetic to the wife. It didn’t make her a heroine or anything, but it depicted her as the victim of broken habit and real shock rather than Parker’s bitch that all but willingly refused to get over things and face reality. When the scorn poured in Jane answered, “This isn’t plagiarism. It’s editing.”

Bathroom Monologues: Decorations

I was quite proud of my adorable scarecrows with their jack o'lantern heads, linked arm and arm on the porch. Yet the only person to compliment them was a politician going door to door for re-election, and I was fairly certain it was in her routine to compliment any decorations she saw. I could have had kittens dangling and strangling from my rafters and she would have been obliged to say, "I do so love your cats here."

Bathroom Monologue: Only publishing this one so I can claim the quote “sexual hot potato”

The Ekari have four genders, amongst which they pass seed, fertilized egg, and eventually developing life. It’s sort of a sexual hot potato. Coincidentally they don’t treat sex as very fun. It’s a lot like filing taxes for the Ekari. You might be similarly disinterested if every porno took 75 minutes to get to the good part.

Bathroom Monologue: Letter to the Editors

He wasn't sure he was God. He could manipulate reality so well that nobody noticed when he did it, and the side effects were minimal (some people saw UFO's and once or twice a virgin got impregnated, nothing big). And he sure didn't want to play God because that never worked out well for anyone, least of all for God, Whom, if He existed, wasn't answering His phone anymore. But darn it, he wanted to help. There were so many sick people. So many hungry people. So many unnecessary deaths. The suffering of humans was ridiculous, caused primarily by the selfishness and ignorance of their fellow men (and women). They needed instruction. So he crafted a message. Then removed the profane language. Then he edited it to include literary flourish. Then he re-edited it to modernize the language. Then re-edited to include that interpretability most humans needed in instruction, and seconds later scratched that out and made sure it was as obvious a command as possible. Finally, he slept on it. It seemed pretty good, and after softening his words a little (he could come off as harsh) and reading it out loud to hear how it sounded, he mailed it to reality. He hoped it worked. It read: "Love each other or I'll fucking kill you."

Bathroom Monologue: Who Was I in a Present Life?

In 2007 I dropped 64 pounds, cut my 18-inch brown hair and shaved my mangy red beard to discover that, underneath the mess, I was strikingly bland. Still a little puffy and moon-faced, still with moles in unflattering places – still too ugly to ever be handsome, still not messed up enough to be intriguingly hideous. It turned out that, under years of fast food fat and a refusal to cut my hair, I was a default model. I recognized myself, but not as the person I used to be so many pounds ago. I recognized myself from BBC sitcoms.

I looked very much like a drove of pudgy, unappealing BBC sitcom extras. We never get a meaningful role. Often we don’t even speak. We’re lucky to be reoccurring characters in the backgrounds of office or sidewalk scenes. The more I catch myself in the mirror (and the BBC online), the more I realize what a successful and overlooked phenomenon my body type is.

Only one of us has tasted real success, as the guy who plays the “P.C.” on Mac commercials. Even he is a little too short and distinct-looking for our club, though, and we’re not noticeable enough people to be the butt of that many jokes. Bless that man. May he experience all the success that none of us have the look to achieve.

Bathroom Monologue: Hate Living by Catchphrases

"I never learned anything from people who agree with me."
"Do you believe the sky is blue?"
"Yes."
"I agree! Did you know that the 1876 U.S. Presidential election was so divisive and contentious that the outcome was negotiated in a hotel, and that Rutherford Hayes was granted the presidency from his opponents for agreeing to withdraw troops from the South and promising to have at least one Southerner in his cabinet?"
"No.…"
"Well there, you learned something. Excuse me. I’ve got a bus to catch."

Bathroom Monologue: "No Pets Allowed (except those assisting handicapped persons)" -Door at Roanoke Regional Airport, Virginia

It took time a long time to build the custom glass tank, and still longer to properly train the maco shark to operate it. His wife wasn’t happy to see her blind husband led around by a shark in a gas-powered tank, but Tim was insistent. Maco (Tim wasn’t creative with names) directed the device by swimming nearer towards one of eight directional zones in the tank, which worked in wide-open spaces, but still had some kinks with doorways. He rationalized that it did get through the door (even if it demolished it), and he hadn’t been mugged once since submitting himself to the guidance of the land shark. As a bonus, Tim didn’t have to walk around, dragged by some seeing-eye mutt, but could catch a ride on one of the tank’s bumpers, so long as he held onto the rail and not the edge of the tank. Maco was loyal, but she was also a nibbler.

Bathroom Monologue: If you edited a short story collection…

If I could have my own personal collection of great short stories, it would open with E.B. White’s short poem, “Critic.” That poem reads:

“The critic leaves at curtain fall,
to find, in starting to review it,
he scarcely saw the play at all,
for watching his reaction to it.”

Then the first three stories would be:

-Mark Twain’s “Cannibalism in the Cars”
-Eudora Welty’s “Where is That Voice Coming From?”
-Stephen King’s “The Ballad of the Flexible Bullet”

The interesting hitch is that, besides them being three writers I love and three stories I can’t stop re-reading, Welty studied Twain and King studied Welty. In a very abstract way, you’d start the collection with a literary descent. It would also help that Twain’s story is delivered from a questionable narrator, whose questionability is strongest as it ends, Welty’s story was written by such a strong and inexplicable voice that she actually titled it to admit she didn’t know how she was coming up with all of it, and King’s story is literally about where inspiration comes from.

After that, we’d go to:

-Percival Everrett’s “The Fix”
-Gabriel Marquez’s “The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World”

I don’t know enough Gabriel Marquezes to use his middle name. You’re among friends here, Gabe.

-James Thurber’s “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”
-George Kaufman’s “Annoy Kaufman Inc.”
-Ray Bradbury’s “Zero Hour”
-Ron Carlson’s “The H Street Sledding Record”
-Steve Martin’s “Changes in the Mind After Fifty”
-Flannery O’Connor’s “A Good Man is Hard to Find”
-Jonathan Swift’s “Battel of the Books”
-Philip Dick’s “The Eyes Have It”
-Roger Zelazny’s “The George Business”
-Tim O’Brien’s “The Things They Carried”
-Isaac Asimov’s “The Last Question”

I would close it out with “The Things They Carried,” being such an amazing piece of voice, but Asimov’s story about reversing entropy is too fitting an end. As not to spite either modern American literary tradition or science fiction canon, though, I’d actually close the collection with Fredric Brown’s classic short short, “The Last Man.” That goes:

“The last man on earth sat alone in a room. There was a knock on the door…”



I’m going on another trip, folks. I’ll be back on the 25th. I may post fresh Bathroom Monologues from the road if I get internet access, but I have no idea if that's feasible right now. If you would do me a small kindness, list some of the short stories that would be in your personal collection in the Comments section. With any luck I'll have a lovely little reading list when I get back. Themes are very welcome.

Bathroom Monologues: "I like how certain sides of your brain are female." –Randall Nichols

Some weren't just female, but downright hermaphroditic. Reggie Dickens figured it was best to keep one’s mind as limber and fertile as possible, and that meant keeping every piece of the human mind operating. It provided him a prolific career in American letters, though his family only discovered this through his estate when he passed away at 63. While he'd never gotten his crack at the Great American Novel published, he had published many lesser works, under two separate names.

Christopher Pytens had a decent line of hardboiled mysteries, notable for their gruesome murderers and shrewd caricatures.

Regina Delacroix had published a good wealth of poetry in regional magazines, and had two novels about growing up in the South - rather interesting considering Regina was actually an overweight man from Oregon.

His sisters were quite surprised to find that Regina Delacroix had even done book signings, and one of the store managers they tracked down said she was, "a simple delight, if clumsy. She was such a big woman, you know."

The Dickens sisters were afraid their mother would find out her son had been a cross-dresser, until they found he didn't own any dresses. Or make-up. There were no secret panels in his apartment or skeletons in his closet (except the plastic one he put on the porch at Halloween).

And the Dickens sisters were positively mystified when one store manager mentioned that Regina Delacroix had done a book signing with Christopher Pytens.

"For two people of such different subjects, they really seemed to get along. Rather adorable to watch that slight man chat at her," she said.

They tried to track these phantoms through the publishers, but there wasn't a single lead or photograph, even on the dust jackets. Apparently they’d managed everything through Mr. Reginald Dickens.

A strange anonymous couple showed up to Reggie's funeral, though: a small man and a moose of a woman, both in black, both wearing veils. From all sights, Reggie’s death had really broken them up inside. They sobbed and whispered something before the coffin, and were out of the place before either Dickens sister could snag them. Only their mother got the chance to chat the couple up, and she reported that they were just fans who had been, "touched so deeply by Mr. Dickens' writing," that they'd just had to come up and say their goodbyes.

Their mother couldn’t say anymore about them without bursting into tears. You see, they'd had his eyes.

Bathroom Monologue: Absurdist like...?

-Absurdist like using Mars as a can opener?
-Spanking a lobster?
-Paying income taxes on your imaginary jobs in Monopoly money?
-The internet using the public library to browse humans?
-Bitchslapping a dominatrix with a tulip?
-Planets dwarf-tossing asteroids?
-Someone using a remote to mute a live opera?
-Our cavalry being overrun by giant white statues of horse heads that only moved in L-shapes?

Bathroom Monologue: Get Out, and Close the Door

“Not everyone who’s having a good time is some tortured soul covering up their inner darkness. We’re not all suffering children with a hedonistic exterior, damaged at the core by hard, crumby lives. Some of us just want to have a good time with the people around us because we’re good people. Some of us want to enjoy the time we have. But you won’t accept that. You want to make us like you, and you’ll do it one way or the other. The one way is posthumous psychoanalysis; when we’re dead and can’t tell the world how wrong you are, you simply argue that we lived lies in the face of your bold, self-righteous truths. But until we drop dead, you try to win out the other way. You doubt us, browbeat us, tell us we’re in denial, pretend humor is inferior to seriousness, and bring us down at every chance you get until we stay down, like a kid playing with a balloon, only tiring when the helium runs out and we lie limp on the ground like the rest of your toys, unhappy and unable to get up on our own anymore. And that’s what makes you like every other supposedly grand thinker: when it turns out you’re wrong, you take it out on the people who made you wrong until you’re right.”

Bathroom Monologue: Things I'd Like to Know

-How the field goal kicker feels after his team loses 42 to 3.
-If light ever slows down just a couple meters per second for a few seconds, just to spite us.
-If any of the telemarketers I've been called by are actually sasquatches trying to fit into the modern economy while living in anonymity. If some are, I'd like to know where they picked up the Indian accents.
-If the sun has a magical property that kills vampires, or if light energy kills them - and if the latter should be the case, if they could be killed by being run over by a solar-powered car.
-How many people would have to be incapacitated for the head coach of the Chicago Bears to be appointed temporary president.
-Why people take the uniqueness of snowflakes as truth without personal empirical research, and what it would mean for physics if three identical ones landed all at the same time - in Stephen Hawking's left eye.
-How many copies of The Collected Works of Jonathan Swift we could print if we recycled every lollipop stick in the world.
-How many awesome forts we could build if we pulped and recycled every ice cream popsicle stick in the world.
-How much money a band would make if they recycled every blank white shirt in the world as their own post-modern limited edition tour shirts.
-If -just once- everyone in the world blinked at exactly the same time and some cosmic being turned off the sun for that splitsecond, and turned it back on before anyone opened their eyes.
-If anyone objected to the above ludicrous situation because video cameras around the world would pick up the moment of darkness.
-If anyone objected to the above objection because a cosmic being capable of installing a lightswitch in a star could probably outsmart a VCR.
-If a rapper has ever pulled fake ebonics words out of his ass while making an album and pulled it off so well that people just made up definitions based on inflection and context, quickly changing them from nonsense to cutting edge street talk.
-If there is life anywhere else in the universe, and if so, what they thought of The Godfather II.

Bathroom Monologue: “I’m having trouble thinking of a plot for National Novel Writing Month.” –Michelle Ann Fleming

Title: Sincerely, Abe
Tagline: “A.L..” Does that stand for “Abraham Lincoln” or “Alternative Lifestyle?” You decide!
Genre: Historical fiction/sappy romance/science fiction
Synopsis: Abraham Lincoln is gay... for Jesus. And he builds a time machine with the help of sentient garden gnomes to reach his one true love. But a cruel conspiracy of slave-owners and Da Vinci Code fans are out to ruin alternative history’s greatest romance. The ironic twist ending sees John Booth crucify Jesus, and Pontius Pilot shoot Abraham Lincoln... a smile!
Subplots: The garden gnomes turn out to be reincarnations of a primordial force, “The Supporting Cast.” In previous existences they were the Apostles, the seven dwarves, and during the end credits we see them become the guys that bankrolled the Titanic.
Themes: Redemption (gnomes), love (Abe/Christ, Booth/Judas, Grumpy/Doc)
Comments: I’m so clever.

Looking for the huge branch mom said fell in her yard Monologue

Where is this blasted branch? This supposedly enormous fallen bough? I can spy it not on yonder side of the property, yet I examine every bush as a hiding place. Perhaps her feminine eyes scried what they wished or feared, rather than that which was truly there. It is one of the features of her gender, and it is my experience that it runs doubly so for the eyes of mothers. Indeed, the lumber must have manifested in her mind when she heard tell of reports of last eve’s heavy winds, which impregnated her mind with the concept of an object all too large for her to lift. A romantic distress. It may well be time we treat of retirement from her… oh, there it is.

Bathroom Monologue: The Wind Turns Leaves Over

The story on the A.P. wire that morning finally convinced Aubert to change. For months he’d noticed bad habits: taking advantage of the feelings of others, cutting people off in traffic, getting short with people on the phone. One time he even walked into the street and started knocking off people’s hats for no apparent reason. For months he noticed these habits, and thought he should change.

Then he read, “Man Charged in Death of Good Samaritan” on the A.P. wire. Someone had stolen a tip jar, jumped in his car, and ran over the customer that tried to stop him. And while Aubert didn’t feel like he was that man (and knew he wasn’t), this bothered him so badly that he had to go out for a walk.

Aubert never went for walks, so he got lost. He wandered by some shops, until he saw one with a peculiar sign in the window. It read: “NEEDED: ONE MORE GOOD MAN.”

Not even, “WANTED.”

“NEEDED.”

He went inside and couldn’t think what to tell the clerk.

She asked, “Did you read the story about the Samaritan?”

His eyes went wide, but then nodded. He helped her clear a couple of tables and said, “Yes. And I’m here now.”

They never took down the sign.

(Inspired by: http://apnews.myway.com/article/20080308/D8V93M9O0.html )

Bathroom Monologue: Expenses List for the Break-In

Expenses List
Day 1:
Ninjas (7x)
Black jumpsuits (6x)
Tye dye jumpsuit (1x)
Pressure-tested grapnel lines (400 meters)
Replica bank vault
High-tech infrared cameras (3x)

Day 2:
Higher-tech ultraviolet cameras (2x)

Day 3:
Plastic explosives (200 lbs.)

Day 4:
Ecological pamphlets (9x)

Day 5:
Hazardous materials disposal
Biodegradable natural explosives (200 lbs.)

Day 6:
Service truck rentals
Eco-friendly smoke bombs
Electromagnetic pulse generator

Day 8:
Bail (8x)
Legal representation (7x – screw the hippy ninja)

Bathroom Monologue: If knowledge is power, then someone define “power,” OR, I felt a lot less clever when I found Plato beat me to this

It’s Word Time again in my head. Today’s word is “know.” I don’t know what it means. Can I say that? It’s using the word to define itself (or to admit that I can’t define it). I know “think” and “believe” and “conclude” and “experience” and “remember.” Not “know.” I could say that I know there is a pair of scissors on my desk. I remember them being there, and when I look, they are there. So did I know? When did I know it? What if I looked and they weren’t there? I put them down ten minutes ago. I don’t know where they’d go if they weren’t there – but they wouldn’t be there. If I put them down on my desk ten minutes ago, then typed this, saying I knew there was a pair of scissors on my desk only to find they weren’t there, did I know? No. In that case I believed them to be there, but they weren’t. In the traditional case of knowledge, to “know” would mean I believed them to be there and they were there. But in both cases there was a point when I wasn’t directly observing and I said they were there – in one case they were, and in one case they weren’t. I was just as certain in both cases, before the fact was checked. So my mental state was identical; being wrong was a physical condition. Then knowledge might not be a physical state. Is “knowing” only believing something that happens to be true? What a weird bridge to build across subjectivity and objectivity.

You could memorize facts – memorize a whole manuscript, word for word, sentence for sentence, paragraph for paragraph. You could think you know the story. You could believe you knew it. And then the author could change it. If she added just one word, suddenly you wouldn’t know her book. Your information would be invalid. But you would think you knew. And this happens all the time.

Many teenage couples think they’ll be in love forever. Maybe one of them will be. Let’s say all the others don’t make it past fifteen years. They think they know they will, and then it turns out they didn’t. They didn’t really know. But what about that one couple? Did those two 14-year-olds know, even though there was no possible way of observing the ends of their claim until it happened? They believed it, and then it was true.

People claim to know things based on favorable probability all the time. If they’d had culture, the dinosaurs probably would have known that no meteor would take them all out – except if a meteor did, which we can’t be sure of, though some scientists say they know. Others say they know it was disease.

And what about all the things you’re supposed to know? You know you did your best. You know you love your kids more than anything in the world. Do you believe these things as they are said? Will you keep believing them? Are they true, will they be true, and how long will they remain true? Forever? I don’t know where my scissors went, so knowing about anything as long as “forever” seems rather silly to me. Maybe “to know” is a joke – something else’s idea of a joke. We make jokes to make each other laugh. What’s laughing at us for making us think we know?

Bathroom Monologues: Possible Headstone Inscriptions

-“Welcome.”
-“Cobras aren’t poisonous, right?”
-“Third base.”
-“Never buy your brakes and your headstone from the same person.”
-“Do Not Disturb.”
-“Best 2 out of 3?”
-“He will be missed (unfortunately too late; if only he’d been missed by that bus)”
-“Based on a True Story.”

Bathroom Monologue: Nobody Has Ever Had It Worse

Adina finally began to wind down her rant with, “So Michael dumped me for an Israeli girl. Maybe they’ll move off to the Promised Land together. Now that it’s out, I’ll never make branch manager. You can see it in the way the higher ups look at me. It’s like they’re punishing me for not being Jewish enough.”

The shade of her ancestor nodded and stroked his long beard.

“Yes, the life of a heretic is hard.”

“Did they mistreat you like this when you were alive, Eliyahu?”

“No, no.” The shade shook his head. “They flayed me and set me on fire in the town square, but nothing this bad, bubala.”

"Something died inside me that day." –Hundreds of people on TV at various times

How come something is never resurrected inside you "that day?" How come nothing ever sits up in the casket, scares the priest so bad that he wets himself, and does a jig when it realizes how many people came to the funeral? How come a radioactive meteor never reanimates that something which just as it’s died, causing it to forever roam your body and eat the flesh of its own kind? I'd much rather something turn into a zombie than die in me, if only for the variety.

Bathroom Monologue: Do they play for the same team as us, or are they competition?

Lesbianism astounds men in a way that can only be expressed by analogy. To them it is like seeing one of the electric outlets try to plug itself into another. Men wanted to plug an extension cord in there. It makes them feel that either the outlet is defective, or they are. The analogy falls apart, though, when thousands of men pay $19.95 for a softcore video of the two outlets.

Bathroom Monologue: Love, Loathing and Odds

“Fine!” exclaimed the God of Love. “We’ll settle this universe on fair chance. Do you want evens or odds?”

“I always want odds,” said the hunk of eyeballs that served at the God of Loathing’s avatar. It would have rubbed its hands together in evil glee if it had them in the first place.

The God of Love held the dice up in his glowing palm.

“Odds and you get to end this universe however you like. But if it’s even, it gets a fair chance. Agreed?”

The hunk of eyeballs nodded.

“Agreed. To chance!”

“To chance,” echoed the God of Love, and he rolled.

“We’ll see about that,” muttered the God of Dice.

Bathroom Monologues: Re: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aD0uPiMeVA4&feature=dir

Laughed in pain's face. A lot.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aD0uPiMeVA4&feature=dir

Bathroom Monologue: Did you get good marks?

At that point in the country’s history to be unscarred was to either be a child or of the royal class. Medicine and hygiene were so primitive that any injury, even the every day abrasions of work, left permanent marks. Only someone who never performed manual labor was scarless. It wasn’t until Prince Gungriel burned himself (he just had to light one of the fireworks at the festival) and went about a campaign of vanity that imperfection became an acceptable part of aesthetics. In a disturbing trend created by the royals, scarification became an art style, with specific designs like tattoos. This marked the first major break between royal fashion and commoner fashion, as commoners began to respect simpler scars, ones that looked like they came from labor, more than those of art. The royals scoffed at the shallowness of the commoners. Famous cultural critic Mardeiger said this couldn’t be shallow, as, “if it were too shallow, it wouldn’t have left much of a mark.”