Welcome to season two episode five.
Wait, isn't...
No way.
Is this episode five or six?
Fucking hell, I think it's episode six.
There you go, way to go, dipshit.
Fucking like the only scripted part of the entire fucking show,
and you fuck it up.
Stupid fucking
fucking fat bald motherfucker.
Come on, damn it.
You know what?
This is very indicative of the way my fucking weekend is gone.
All I've been thinking about all fucking weekend long
is I gotta get this done.
And so I can go downstairs and record missing through a radio.
And I get, I get, I get, okay, fuck,
I gotta get this done now.
And now I can go downstairs and record an episode of missing through a radio.
It's been like this all fucking weekend long.
As a matter of fact, to be completely honest with you,
I shouldn't even be recording now.
It's been a super frustrating weekend.
Let's pretend like you didn't just fucking hear me, butch.
The only scripted part of fucking of an episode of missing through a radio.
And I'm just gonna just fucking hit the fucking reset button here,
and we're gonna start again.
Okay, here we go.
Welcome to season two episode six of missing through a radio.
Do you hear my fucking mouth clicks?
Jesus shit.
Well, let me pull this thing down in front.
Maybe that'll help some.
I use the light in this room is extraordinarily bright.
So I end up putting my pop filter up and use it as a fucking sun visor.
Okay, one more fucking time.
Welcome to season two episode six of missing through a radio.
Fucking hell, was that so hard?
All right, let's go.
Being a home owner, the absolute pinnacle of the American experience.
I'm gonna go so far as to say that it's the cornerstone of the American dream.
Home ownership.
The box and floor with a white picket fence and a dog running around in the yard.
It's the American dream.
Every young man grows up and thinks,
how am I going to buy that house?
How am I going to afford that house?
Every young lady grows up and just wants a home of her own
that she can decorate and treat as a blank canvas.
A place where her wildest artistic desires are absolutely within reach.
Home ownership.
Absolutely 100% the cornerstone of the American dream as it was sold to us.
Over the course of the last 50 to 75 years.
But what about before that?
Was home ownership part of the American dream?
I don't know that it was.
Moving forward is home ownership going to be considered part of the American dream.
I don't know that it is.
If you wouldn't mind though to humor me just for a moment,
let me take you through what home ownership actually is.
I'm sitting in a chair in my basement talking into this microphone.
Yes, I'm sitting in a chair that I own in a basement that I own next to a concrete wall
and above me is the rest of the house that I own.
And it feels pretty good to be able to say that to you.
However, on the other side of the concrete wall to the right of me, there is the yard
that I own.
Two and a half acres.
Oh man Lorenzo, you must be doing pretty well.
That's a pretty nice-n
That's a pretty nice sized lawn, right?
Yeah, it's great.
But at this very moment, there is an evil lurking beneath the tranquil surface
of the grassy lawn that I own.
An evil so vile, so foul, so unspeakable that homeowners everywhere hesitate to even utter
its name.
It is an evil that drives fear into the hearts of men everywhere.
They break out in cold sweats.
They start ringing their hands, thinking about the untold damage that evil can do to their
lives.
The name of that thrice, damned thing is a name that you never utter in vain.
Lest it come for you and destroy everything you've worked for.
That evil is lurking right now, underneath the surface of my tranquil lawn.
Maybe I didn't give it the proper respect.
Maybe I didn't prepare enough, trying to keep it at bay.
Maybe I didn't sacrifice enough, or take heed to the warning signs.
Maybe there was something I could have done to prevent its coming.
To prevent the havoc that it is wreaked on my holiday weekend.
Maybe there was something I could have done to keep the sewer from clogging.
You just broke out into a cold sweat, didn't you?
I said clogged sewer, and you immediately thought of feces floating through your fucking
basement, running through your fucking house, ruining all of your fucking keepsakes, destroying
your fucking chainsaw.
You immediately had visions of pissy fucking grey water and goddamn used tampons, spraying
up out of your fucking washing machine drain pipe, and all over the fucking room, destroying
your collection of books that you've been putting together for the last 25 years, maybe
annihilating some of your vintage fucking computer systems, seeping into the walls, soaking
up into the fucking sheet rock, getting into your insulation, whole turds and bits of fucking
toilet paper running all over your basement furniture, seeping, being under the wall into
the tool room just off the garage, soaking your pressure washer, and your chainsaw.
Using your vintage wooden ladder, and your box of screws that you'll probably never use,
human feces intermingling within circling around your collection of half used cans of paint,
and slowly creeping and crawling its way over to your studio equipment that you used to produce
a podcast that you really enjoy making.
Sewer clog.
That's what happened to me yesterday.
I woke up, I decided I was going to go down to lows not to lose because I'm doing a
bit of a home improvement project upstairs.
I start my truck because it's cold as shit outside, I go outside, I get in the truck,
and then I go.
When I come back though I walked up in the house and I could detect a faint odor.
Something wasn't quite right, I couldn't really put my finger on what it was, all I knew
was my house, doesn't smell like this.
I didn't know what had happened while I was gone.
I walked into the kitchen, I walked into the upstairs bathrooms, I walked into the bedrooms
looking for the culprit that could bring this foul odor into my fucking house.
Finally I walked downstairs, and I get about halfway down the stairs and I notice the
color of the tile is not quite what I remember it being.
I hadn't been downstairs in a couple of days, but I didn't remember it being that color.
And upon closer inspection I realized I could no longer see the tile.
The tile was being obscured by the goddamn three inch deep fucking pool of fucking water
that had ran over the tile.
Holy shit, I immediately thought to myself what the fuck is happening, the goddamn hot
water heater blew up, son of a bitch, and then the smell hit me again, except stronger
this time, and I immediately knew what it was.
And the walls came crashing in around me, and the ceiling started getting lower and lower
and lower, and there were spots in my fucking vision.
As I was getting close for the first time in my life to descending into a full blown fucking
panic attack, a fucking clogged sewer, a clogged sewer.
That's something that I'd never fucking had happened to me before, but I'd read about
it, I'd heard about it, I'd heard other people talk about it, and the fucking look of horror
in their eyes, spent horror, horror from a lifetime ago, because that clogged sewer was
a watershed moment in their lives, and when they came out the other side of the fucking
clogged sewer debacle, they were never the same, they were a different person entirely, they
had seen things, they had had to touch things, they had done things.
That they never thought that they would have to do.
The clogged sewer took something from them, and replaced it with something primal, animalistic,
the event that singular event in their lives turned them into a different person, if person
is what they can be called anymore, and here I was in the grips of it, in the midst
of
deal myself changing, devolving, right there, standing halfway down my staircase, I could
feel it happening to me, I could feel it, I could feel myself becoming the fucking person
who was getting ready to have to sift through all of their fucking belongings, and figure
out whether they're worth keeping, washing or trying to preserve, because at this very
fucking moment, they're literally soaking in human shit.
A soup, if you will, a soup whose main ingredients are water, urine, shit, snot, come and fucking
a festering oozing fucking grayish liquid that has stuff floating in it, is currently in
around on and under everything I fucking own.
That mother fucker is home ownership.
At its fucking bare bones nakedist.
That is what home ownership actually is.
The American fucking dream is walking downstairs, because you're in the middle of a project, upstairs
you walk downstairs, because you catch a fucking odor, and you realize that everything
you fucking own, including the fucking house, that you've paid untold thousands and hundreds
of people by flushing it or washing it down the fucking drain.
That's home ownership.
I'm literally sitting in my fucking studio right now.
Studio heavier quotes, it's a tool room, it's a tool room with concrete walls, okay?
Underneath my kitchen, sitting here with my feet on a folding chair, and my ass in
a lawn chair, talking into a microphone that's mounted to a work bench, and running into
a computer that is at this very moment sitting on a bar stool, and directly beneath all
of these things that I have to have in order to make missing through a radio or reality,
is an inch and a half of sewer water.
It smells like wolf ass in here.
I'm going to take you through what's happened since I had this realization.
Now, I know what you're probably thinking besides, you're probably thinking why Lorenzo, are
you sitting and recording an episode of Missing Through Up Radio when you should be cleaning
up shit water?
Well, I'm glad you asked, because I had to get this moment immortalized.
I had to get this moment recorded because I wanted you to know in this, when I'm fucking
most vulnerable, I wanted you to fucking hear what the breaking of a human being sounds
like.
I don't know what I'm going to
to do because this is the most horrifying thing to me, okay?
The stuff is what it is.
I don't care.
Yes, it's seeping into my chain saw.
That sucks, right?
Yes, it's destroying all of my stuff.
It is.
I have literal piss shit come blood and fucking dish water soaking into all of my shit right
now.
Yes, and I'm getting ready to stop doing this and I'm getting ready to go and start cleaning
it.
But what I wanted to do here, this
this is the fucking most horrible part for me.
I don't know if this is my shit beneath me.
Right now, I'm looking at a toilet paper wrapped turd.
Just underneath my feet, I'm looking at a toilet paper wrapped turd right there on the
fucking ground.
And I don't know if it's mine because the way this fucking works, the way the sewer system
works, the way this all and fucking raffles, everything's interconnected, right?
And if the city who has been doing work behind the house back there, if they cut the fucking
sewer line, what I have rolling into my house right now is not mine.
If they did something back there and it's not actually a clogged and it is in fact a problem
with the sewer system, that toilet paper wrapped turd, just below my feet right there, it
isn't mine.
That that belongs to someone else that came from somebody else's ass, okay?
Up the road, a ways.
You see what I'm saying here?
So I'm freaking out.
If it sounds like I'm freaking out, it's because I am.
Because I'm not sure that this is mine.
And I don't really know, I don't study feminine hygiene products like that, but I promise
you that there's a fucking tampon in my goddamn family room and there's nobody here who
uses those.
That's home ownership.
That's literally home ownership.
In a nutshell, that's what it is.
Yes, I am definitely in a place that
I'm not sure that I'm buying it.
And then I read little blurbs that millennials and generation Z folks are just not trying to buy
houses anymore.
It started out because they couldn't afford them, right?
They couldn't afford a fucking house.
The interest rates are fucked.
The economy's trash.
We just can't afford houses, but now I think they're starting to see and more people are
avoiding home ownership because of shit like this.
This happens in your apartment.
You just fucking call the landlord and they come and fix it.
Their insurance company cuts you a check for the shit that you lost.
And if they don't, you fucking sue them.
Yeah, you pay a little more.
You know, a mortgage, oddly enough, is cheaper than rent.
Didn't used to be that way, but it's that way now.
A mortgage is cheaper than rent.
But you have peace of mind.
And you're renting that you simply don't have as a homeowner.
I'm sitting in the middle of a lake of other people's shit.
I think it's other people's shit.
I think it's entirely possible that it's other people's piss and shit.
I'm sitting in a lake of that and it's my fucking problem.
I got to work this shit out.
I'm getting ready to go do that now.
I'm going to stop recording here in a few minutes and I'm going to go and I'm
going to start depissing, shitting and fucking tamponing my house.
And then I'm going to go rent industrial fans and to try to dry everything out after I scrub
everything down with vinegar and bleach and fucking all the dish soap I can find.
That's home ownership.
There's a tree out back that is god damn enormous and it looks like it's been hit by lightning
at some point and it's slowly but surely leaning a little bit more and a little bit more.
And eventually it's going to fall and it's going to kill the neighbors.
But it's going to cost me about three dollars to have it pulled out because the tree so
god damn big.
But if I don't and it falls and kills the neighbors I'm going to jail or something I don't know
exactly what's going to happen to me but it's going to be terrible.
I don't care about the neighbors fuck them.
Let them die.
Who gives a shit?
They're going to die one way or the other anyway.
Why not let a tree do it and make it noteworthy?
But I don't want it to be my tree.
So if I don't do anything they're going to fucking die and that's I am assuming my life
will go to shit after that.
Nobody's going to let me get off scot free for having one of my trees kill my neighbors.
But in order for me to have it removed because I can't do it myself because it's so
god damn enormous it's going to cost me three thousand dollars.
That's home ownership.
In a nutshell that's what it is.
It's backed up sewers.
It's cleaning fucking carpets.
It's having to power wash fucking sidewalks sidewalks and it's removing trees at great personal
one who comes after me.
Fuck them.
Let them find their own way.
Why is it my responsibility to build a legacy for them?
Fuck them.
Nobody did that for me.
Well you're just throwing that money away if you don't own it.
Okay what do you mean by that?
I gotta live somewhere.
You know what if I get a fucking sell this house at some point and make a piss pot of money
and go do what?
Buy another fucking place that's a problem.
I don't know man.
I'm just saying this this renting thing is starting to look real fucking good to me.
Yes I am giving somebody a piss pot of money and I'm not going to get anything in return
but fucking so what?
With the money I have left over I'm not doing improvement projects.
So what if I don't like the fucking cabinets who gives a shit.
I get to fucking sign that lease move all my shit in there and just live and if there's
a fucking problem I make it somebody else's fucking problem.
I'm seeing the appeal here.
I'm seeing the fucking allure as I'm sitting here stifled by the stench of a fucking lake
free.
It's not even a lake.
It's a free flowing river.
A fucking sewer water that's running through my fucking personal property and my personal
space right now.
I'm seeing the fucking appeal of being the fucking toilet paper wrapped turd that there is a
fairly decent chance to not come from my ass.
I'm seeing the appeal of not being a homeowner anymore.
I got to stop this.
I got to do cleanup.
You know what having a smooth brain causes a bunch of mouth breathing slack jawed in bread
retards.
You do not hate the media enough.
Utterly worthless bloated pasty sack of guts.
Yeah yeah I'm an ass time a phoenix.
That would probably hurt if I actually respected your opinion.
The left is a death cult.
That's all it is.
They do not value the
at this point I think I've put out enough episodes of Miss Enthorough radio for you to
infer that I'm not the type of person to go to shopping malls.
And you would be wrong.
Dead wrong.
I love me a good Commission.
Every opportunity I get to go to the fucking mall I go.
Seems completely out of character doesn't it?
Miss Enthrop is in the name.
However, the reason I love to go to shopping malls will probably make sense to you.
I love to fucking people watch.
I love more than anything else to sit and observe the absurdity of human behavior.
And I love a good fucking food court.
And is it about a shopping mall food court that makes me psychologically give a pass to the
fucking shit quality of food you find there?
I fucking love it though.
I love the shitty cookie places.
I love the fucking nasty Chinese joint with that fucking broad out there handing out orange
chicken on a toothpick.
But the pen ultimate restaurant experience in any fucking shopping mall food court is the
Lebanese slash Greek place.
You find invariably in the very back of the food court.
I was in the Navy a long time.
I've been to the Middle East.
I don't know how many fucking times probably been to Dubai.
Fifteen times maybe even more.
And I've often said the only thing I miss about the Middle East is the food.
That's it.
Everything else there sucks.
It's beige and it sucks ass.
But the food my god the fucking food the shwarma and the euros in particular make me keep
my passport updated.
One of these days I promise you I will hop a plane and fly to the fucking Middle East
just to fucking eat my weight in shwarma.
That day unfortunately has not come yet.
So I am relegated to Greek and Lebanese places I can find out in town.
In my neck of the woods the Greek slash Lebanese place at the shopping mall is about all
I have to choose from.
And they don't disappoint to be completely honest with you.
Yeah I love a good year old gyro.
However you want to fucking say it I fucking love them.
The warm grilled pita bread.
The mystery meat.
I have no idea what it is.
Thinly fucking sliced and slapped on a grill just to finish it off.
The onions that are entirely too fucking strong.
The tomatoes that are a little bit too red to be believed.
And the toziki sauce.
I fucking love it.
I know it involves garlic and I know it involves cucumber and I know that the base for it
is Greek yogurt or some shit like that.
But I've never been able to recreate it successfully.
Something about fucking toziki sauce.
I just fucking love it.
Even though it ruins my breath for the.
Give me a fucking year old.
I fucking love.
Eros.
So I found myself around Christmas time in a shopping mall.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon.
I was in my window.
I do that thing called intermittent fasting, where I don't eat basically from dinner until
one thirty two o'clock in the afternoon.
So by the time I got to the mall and got near the food court, I was fucking starving.
I ran the corner to the food court there's all the people piled up waiting to get to
fucking chick filet and the fucking McDonald's that's there and the little fish and chips
place in the nasty fucking Chinese joint all the way in the back though.
There's my target.
That's what I'm looking for.
The Mediterranean slash Greek place that no one is currently waiting in front of.
I make a fucking b line directly towards it.
I'm so fucking excited.
And I'm absolutely goddamn starving.
Like I said at this point in the day, I get back over to them and he's waiting for me with
a smile on his fucking mail Eastern face.
He asks me what I want.
I say that I would like a jumbo Euro plate, which is a Euro with extra meat, two cups of
taziki sauce and an extra generous helping of the fucking steak fries.
I stand there kind of bouncing in place while they're preparing it.
I'm watching the cook car of the meat down off of that thing.
I don't know what the fuck it's called and finish it on the grill while the other guy
gets the pita bread and the onions and the tomatoes ready to go.
He dumps the meat on the rest of the sandwich.
The guy folds it over, wraps it in a piece of paper, puts it inside the styrofoam container
with the fries and hands it to me.
I'm in fucking heaven.
I'm not so patiently walk over to the table, sit down and absolutely fucking devour my
well-earned lunch.
Christmas time at the shopping mall is kind of fucking awful.
As you can imagine, it's just a few days before Christmas and the place is absolutely jam
packed with fucking people.
I quickly annihilate the meal and then I sit there and turn to my second favorite thing
to do at shopping malls around Christmas time.
I people watch observing the ridiculousness and the absurdity of humans in their natural
state.
I'm thoroughly enjoying myself, however, to be fair and in the interest of full disclosure,
I sitting here at this table is not simply just to watch the absurdity of human behavior.
It's also strategic.
I have shopping that I have to do here today, but as much as I love Euros, they don't
love me all that much.
And I know that I'm going to have to make a quick escape to the bathroom in the next
10 minutes or so.
Why get up?
Walk all the way down to the store just to have this Euro hit bottom, so to speak, and
have me turn around and immediately scramble
to the bathroom.
Now I will say this about this particular shopping mall, they take their fucking bathrooms
seriously.
They're almost like Middle Eastern bathrooms except there's actually a commode rather than
just a fucking hole in the floor with a garden hose.
But what I'm saying is that in this particular shopping mall bathroom, you have actual privacy.
It's not the half two thirds wall thing that we have going on normally with the metal doors
and shit like that.
These are proper walls and the doors go all the way to the floor.
So when you close the door behind you in one of their stalls, you have a degree of privacy
that you simply don't get from most American public bathrooms.
I'm round the corner to walk into the men's bathroom and I'm greeted by no less than 12
stalls and about 8 urinals.
There's quite a few people in there but there's a stall in the corner that I'm aiming for.
I see that it's open.
I beeline directly towards it again casually but efficiently.
I only have seconds left, seconds until I'm going to need to be in place and ready
for the eruption.
I walk into the bathroom stall,gavel turn around to close the door with the most casual
face I can muster.
I can feel the sweat starting to form on my forehead.
I can feel my hands starting to shake and get a little clammy.
This is going to be a fucking bad one.
I close the door, immediately get to working on my buckle in my belt and finally get set
down on the toilet just in time for the anal explosion to occur.
An audible pap could be heard as my bowels just started emptying all over the inside of
that poor, unsuspecting toilet.
With the initial explosion behind me I settled in.
I put in my earbuds and turned on my noise cancelling.
It's not that I
necessarily mind the Christmas music that's coming through the fucking speaker in the bathroom.
It's everyone else in there that bothers me.
I don't have stage fright necessarily but I also don't love being reminded by the sounds
of people having full blown conversations in the bathroom that I am in fact shitting
my guts out in a public place.
Everything is right in the world.
I got my hero.
I made it to the bathroom without shit in my fucking pants.
I got the initial explosion out of the way.
I am in a very private stall in a well-maintained bathroom.
I have about six hours before the place closes.
I know what I'm here for.
I know what I'm going to get and before too long once nature takes its course I will
be out of this fucking mall and back into the real world.
Nothing can fuck with me.
Everything seems to be trending in the right direction.
And at that exact moment the universe decided that things were in fact going too well for
me and it was time to throw me a curveball.
My stomach started rumbling again.
I realized this wasn't going to be a gentle fucking defecation session.
After the initial blast this was something different.
This was something more violent.
This was something not okay.
I felt that familiar pull and that familiar cramp that told me that shit was all of a sudden
my guts just started evacuating.
A non-stop stream of fecal matter.
I was holding onto the fucking side of the toilet.
I dropped my phone
phone onto the ground and here's where the universe stepped in yet again.
I shifted a little bit too much and all of a sudden
the goddamn automatic toilet fucking flushed.
And blue water all over my fucking ass all up between my fucking legs all over the backside
of my fucking testicles and all over my fucking jeans.
Dirty brown fucking Mediterranean Euro shit water.
Just flew all over my fucking backside all over my fucking balls and all over my fucking
jeans.
Holy shit!
What the fuck just happened?
I'm freaking out and apparently I moved just a little bit fucking too much and the automatic
toilet fucking went off again and sprayed fucking water all over my ass all over my fucking thighs.
It came out from between my legs in a fucking geyser of dirty brown shit water all down
the front of my fucking legs all over my brand new booths.
I even got some in my fucking beard.
When I felt the fucking water droplets hit my face I flinched backwards involuntarily
and the fucking automatic toilet went off again.
The flowing fucking water out to sides all up the fucking between my legs to shit in my
fucking hair now.
I've got water droplets on my fucking glasses dripping off the fucking tip of my nose.
There's nothing I can fucking do I'm trapped.
I can't fucking move and I know I can't fucking stay here.
I can't fucking be here.
What the fuck on a madhouse is this?
I'm fucking screaming at the top of my lungs now because this is the third, fourth, fifth
I don't know.
Third, fourth or fifth flush because it's not just a fucking normal toilet.
If you haven't figured that out by now it's one of those automatic toilets that gives
a little bit backed back.
You know what I'm saying?
There's something fucking wrong with it.
There's something wrong in the internal mechanism where the design of the fucking toilet bowl
maybe the water is too fucking violent.
I don't know what it is.
All I know is that every time it fucking flushes it's like old fucking faithful all over
and again and again and again.
There's nothing I can fucking do.
I'm absolutely at the mercy of this fucking automatic toilet.
If I move too much I get another fucking spray but less we forget I haven't been able to
stop shitting.
The universe fucked me twice not only did it put me on this fucking bowl that has a mind
of its own and is obviously a bit of a fucking massacast but my fucking baffles are just
constantly emptying so I'm feeding this fucking toilet ammunition to blow up all over
me and the fucking walls and everything else.
I've got shit water dripping off the door.
I think that may be a piece of corn.
I haven't eaten corn in weeks.
At this point I'm screaming at the top of my lungs.
I've devolved.
I've degenerated into a fucking animal and I'm screaming at the top of my lungs.
Tell me tell me tell me there was a guy knocking on the door about four flushes ago but
now he's beating on the door screaming.
Can I help you?
Is there something wrong?
Do you require assistance?
And the only thing I can fucking scream back at him is kill me kill me kill me kill me.
This is a fucking nightmare.
After about 14 flushes I finally realized that this problem is not going to fucking solve
itself with me freaking out.
My bowels finally seem to have fucking ran out of things to put into the toilet so it can
then throw it back at me.
And I finally come to my senses and realize I've got to stop.
I've got to stop.
I've got to stop.
Every time I move this sensor on this fucking automatic toilet thinks that I'm getting up
and walking away.
The only way I'm going to get myself out of this is slow steady movements.
Slow peaceful gentle movements like nothing's wrong.
Like I haven't just been evenly violated by a geyser of fucking water.
Like I haven't recognized that this particular automatic toilet in this particular shopping
mall may be the most evil fucking appliance or fixture ever created by man.
I'm not going to say that I cried that day but I am going to say that I got a little
choked up.
And I'm not going to say that there were tears in my eyes but I am going to say that my
eyes were moist with what I assume was toilet water gently I reached over.
Very gently very slowly with absolutely no movement other than that of my arm.
I started unraveling toilet paper, unrolling it and rolling it into a ball around my
fucking hand.
I had to clean myself up.
I've got to get myself into a position where I can get up off of this goddamn roller
coaster and put myself back together.
I gently wipe down my thighs.
I gently reach between my legs and pat dry my balls.
I gently wipe off my fucking dick.
I'm not looking at the toilet paper because I know that if I see any shards or any fucking
remnants of what I put into that toilet on me I'm going to freak out all over again
and I'm going to perpet
and reach.
That's just going to have to be good enough and I gently ever so gently deposit that
wad of toilet paper into the toilet between my legs like I'm a fucking woman because
I dare not lean over to deposit it like a man.
I repeat the process wrapping the toilet paper gently around my fucking hand and then wiping
off my glasses and my face and trying to wipe down my beard again, careful to not get a
glimpse of what may or may not be on that toilet paper, lest I freak out and start the fucking
cycle of flushing and screaming all over again.
The guy is still passively beating on the door and I very calmly but very sternly say,
I'm okay.
Everything's okay.
Please leave me alone.
I was either very convincing or he was looking for a reason to go away anyway.
I'm not sure which and it doesn't matter.
The result was he left, left me in peace, left me to sit here and stew in my own personal
hell.
That second wad of toilet paper is now thoroughly moistened and I gently ever so gently deposit
it in the hole between my legs and down into the toilet.
I've cleaned up all I can clean up.
Now I'm going to have to do something about my ass.
Now we could assume with the sheer volume of water that my asshole has taken throughout
this entire process, we could make the assumption that my asshole has been cleaned.
It's been getting a fucking bidet treatment at 50 fucking PSI for about 10 solid minutes
or what feels like 10 minutes anyway.
We could make that assumption but I couldn't take that risk.
I was going to have to wipe my ass but I didn't know how to do it.
My back throughout this entire process has been perfectly straight.
My head has been perfectly erect on my neck.
The only thing that's moved is my arm and to this point the toilet has not gone off again.
How the hell am I going to lean over and put my big beefy fucking hand over there to wipe
my ass.
How am I going to do it without setting off this fucking toilet again?
Because I can't do it again.
I can't do it not even one more time.
If it goes off one more fucking time I'm going to lose it as if I haven't lost it already.
Very gently.
I roll toilet paper around my hand.
One, two, three.
All the way up to eight layers I've put on my fucking hand.
And I've decided I'm going to have to put my fucking male pride aside and I'm going
to have to wipe through my legs like a fucking girl because I have ascertained that that's
my best chance of getting out of this without getting sprayed another time.
Ever so gently, ever so slowly.
I move my hand towards the hole between my thighs.
Angle it down into the toilet bowl and then up towards my soaking wet asshole.
I've only got one, maybe two swipes at this.
This particular shit has not been what you would call a one wiper.
No, this is one where you spend some time getting cleaned up afterwards and maybe go take
a shower.
But again, I'm kind of relying on the bidet theory that I told you about a few seconds
ago.
I'm probably mostly clean down there.
I've got that toilet paper wrapped all the way to my palm anyway.
I fucking gauge the distance.
Put the nearest most edge of that toilet paper on my fucking asshole and then pull towards
me firmly.
Maybe a little too firmly because I only want to do one pass, maybe two.
I don't feel a lot of resistance but again, it's not feeling real muddy down there either.
I think I'm good to go.
I decide that this is the best I'm going to get.
I pull the toilet paper out, I fold it over, I fucking run it back in there and I do it
one more time and finally deposit it into the fucking bowl, the toilet bowl of the damned.
Now it's just me here.
I have to in one smooth motion get up, grab my fucking pants, take one to two steps away
and turn my back away from it and shield my fucking body from the spray that's inevitably
going to come flying out of that toilet.
I steal myself, I gently tug the fucking belt of my jeans up to my knees and in one smooth
motion I stand and vault myself into the fucking far corner by the trash can, holding
onto the fucking handicap rail.
I brace for fucking impact.
I brace for the impending fucking violence that is going to come out of that toilet bowl
at any fucking second.
I wait for what feels like an eternity and nothing happens.
I pull my pants up, I zip them up, they're soaking fucking wet by the way.
Do my belt and then turn on my heel and look down at that toilet bowl.
It does nothing.
It just sits there observing me, observing the mess it's made of me, basking in the glow
of a job well done.
I reach over, I push the button on the side to tell it it's time to flush.
It flushes dutifully with no spray.
Incidentally I turn towards the door, unlock it and walk out, spend the next 10 minutes washing
my arms, my hands and my face in the fucking sink and then I carry on with my shopping.
Christmas time is a magical time it's shopping malls all across America.
Don't skip the yearos and maybe give the toilet a courtesy flush before you actually sit
down on it.
Alright, that's enough.
I'm gonna end this episode.
Thank you for joining me for season 2 episode 6 of Missing Throat Radio.
I hope you enjoy the show.
I hope you dig it.
If you want to like and follow and and and fucking do all that other stuff give
me a review on whatever podcasting app you listen to that would be great not
required.
The only thing that I ask is that you tell someone who's cool.
How about let do that?
Let's do a little word of mouth thing.
Tell somebody who's cool who's gonna get the kind of humor and the kind of shit that we
do here on Missing Throat Radio and not be a fucking twat about it.
I'll be happy then.
Alright, until next time.