The toilet wondered how many more smelly bottoms it would see before it cracked. I could tell by the way its silver ring gazed at me like one big eye as I drank from it.
I wondered how many smelly feet I would have to sniff, how many bags of tobacco and meth I would have to bark about. How many kicks in the gut the warden would give me before I made it out of this hell hole alive.
I also wondered about the cat.
The cat seemed to know what was going on. She ran deals, I knew it, for cell mate Gibson. Nothing like a good pussy to cargo your valuables. She was smarmy though and she knew it.
Thing is, since the history of cat and dogs, I don’t think that even in this prison we could get along even for just one minute, just to save our hairy asses and make it out in to the light. Why? Nothing to do with her feline prowess and my doggone balls. It was a simple matter of disagreement: she wanted to stay and I wanted to leave.
She was happy being a slave to the man. Being controlled by the inner social workings of these four walls. I’m not. I just need someone to throw me a bone.
Which brings me to the reason why I feel sorry for the toilet.
The toilet is my key to the outside. It will set me free. Just one more smelly bum on that seat and this ancient porcelain chair will crack bigger than Krakatoa. I will then chase that stick like never before, all the way down the pipes, in to the creek and in to the sea.
Thanks to David Muir at Flickr for the use of your pic.