The Shit of Justice
Disability rights in the toilet.
I poop great big powerful logs, and no toilet can contain them.
Mere boastful bullshit, you say? Alas, no. I've been told that most people can just do their business, flush the flusher and walk away lighter and carefree. But my shit does not work that way. It sits there, fat and bloated and looming, and defies the flush. I stare at it. It stares at me. And then, for the millionth time, I grab the plunger and have at it—plunging only once, if fortune farts its gentle breath upon me. Often it does not.
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