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I WAS THIS POOP

One morning, while deciding if my Boss feels like a whole wheat bagel or a plain onion bagel, I heard my Boss call from afar. "Lane. We need to talk." I walked into his office, with both bagels. "Two bagels?" he questioned. "No, sir," I responded. "I was going to give you one." "Just one?" "I was going to give you both of the bagels, of course." "But I don't want both of the bagels, Lane." We stared at each other. "Lane, there's a problem with my bathroom this morning." "What seems to be the problem?" Another PA walked by the office. "You there! Would you please show Lane what seems to be the problem concerning my personal bathroom?" The PA, carrying four boxes of three-hole punched paper, nodded. In the bathroom, the other PA and I stood still, staring. In the toilet floated a small nugget of poop.

"I think he's upset about the turd," the other PA said. I nodded in agreement. "Sir," I said, walking back out into the office, "The nugget has been disposed of. On behalf of the toilet, I'd like to apologize, and I''ll notify janitorial services to fix the toilet immediately -" My Boss held up a notebook. "Lane, it's not the toilet. And it's not me." He stood up, and walked toward me, holding the notebook high. "I keep a strict account of my bowel movements, and I my log is blank for yesterday and this morning." He set down the log, and stared directly at me. "Someone has been using my bathroom." We stared at each other. "Sir, I -" "You're the only one with a key to my office, Lane." I stared at him. "Lane, I'm only wondering one thing." "I haven't -"

"How would you like someone taking a massive shit in your office?" "I don't have an office - " "Or your car. How would you like it if I - a powerful and wealthy producer-writer-director - shat on the hood of your car? Would you like that, Lane?" "No, I suppose I -" "What if you came home tonight, and was greeted by a massive, unapologizing pile of shit?" "I'm sorry -" "If I catch you using my personal bathroom again, Lane, I shall metaphorically wipe my ass with your soul, do you understand?" "Yes sir." And he left. Later that afternoon, going through my checklist, I noticed a small Fedex box sitting on my desk. It was addressed to "Lane Hicks, PA." No address. No return name.

I grabbed a box cutter, and opened the box. I sat for a long time staring at the piece of shit that rested in the box. Lumpy. Brown.I turned the box over, and let it plop to the desk. In a similar capacity, I related to this poop. I was this poop. Far from home, in a strange, new environment, just trying to make it back to the Ocean. Back home. Later that afternoon, I went to my car, and discovered a large shit on that, too. And I opened my mailbox, and all my mail was covered in shit. And - at my apartment, lying at the base of front door, was a gigantic, unsparing, pile of shit. And you know something? That's the end of the story. No retort. No revenge. No funny, witty, closing line. My boss simply spent his day going to every place that was special to me and shat on it, like Bobby Knight using an unorthodox method to teach his subordinate athletes lessons about life. But - since we make a bad reality show about fat people - I failed to embrace the lesson.

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Lane Hicks, Jaku Kubica, LIVING THE DREAM

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