A Creamy Phallus & The Porcelain Pinch

I am but a creamy phallus for a multi-billion dollar corporate moo-cow – squeeze me and I produce. I am entombed in an office tower on the perimeter of the downtown core, like being on the edge of freedom or on the border of oblivion – if this place was but a bear trap in which I was duly caught, I would’ve surely eaten through my furry flesh to have escaped it by now. I am usually perched high atop the grimy streets on the top floor of said tower with panoramic views of the cityscape (or cityscrape) and the ripe river valley – Chinatown bristles below. I have been temporarily reassigned to an office space with a breathtaking view of the adjacent building and its dreary inhabitants – be still my beating heart. I share the elevator with metrosexual males and syrupy secretaries; I stand in the corner and try to ignore their idle chit chat - try to avoid suffocation by way of piquant perfume, mellifluous bullshit and the ever present attitude (an SUV does not make me respect you, please do not wave your logo emblazoned keys in front of my face unless you expect me to insert them into your rectum and drive you off a cliff – thank you). They know that I am not one of them (like a dog sniffing out an intruder amongst the pack – my arse end doesn’t smell quite right – perhaps it’s the lack of backside kisses), I’ve been told that I have too much creativity in my face (I assume that means that I look creative and not like an experiment gone wrong), I think it’s the sarcastic smirk on my face that truly sells the seashells by the seashore. I wonder if they know that I think they’re all a bunch of filthy double breasted beasts and that the homeless have better bowl side manner.

Let me explain.

When nature calls like a foghorn through the storm of your guts, you can’t pull a “Shitbreak” and haul home for a poop, I understand that. But some of these people treat the washroom like their personal dumping ground (if you’ll excuse the pun). Up on the top floor there was a phantom piggy who had a habit of leaving the toilet seat covers on the seat when he was finished with his deposit. The next visitor would then be faced with the unpleasant reminder that another man's bottom cupped the porcelain maw (the only thing worse, is to sit on the seat and find that it retains the unearthly warmth of the last user – creepy – but I imagine women endure this all the time since they have nothing but bowls). Removing the cover was a delicate art, not unlike handling plutonium... and I thought that was bad.

The people down on this floor are so notoriously filthy that I’d consider a colostomy mud pack to be a blessing. They wipe snot on the walls of the stalls, leave wads of wet toilet paper all over the floor, they don’t flush - leaving you to gaze into their bowel stew whether you want to or not. There’s water all over the counter tops, soap residue stains on the tile, gobs of soaked paper towel strewn about the sink, petrified phlegm on the wall in front of the urinal and that Martian stink that you just know shouldn’t escape from a healthy human being (much less an office employee).

Are the suits involved in some sort of nauseating class struggle with the cleaning staff? Are these guys lashing out at their wives for some reason and taking it out on defenseless urinal cakes? A multi-billion dollar corporate citizen run by polluted people who enjoy wallowing in their own filth? I am concerned and confused – maybe I should take the stairs from now on, sharing an elevator with these people just became all the more difficult.

iPod played "Headstones - Cubically Contained" while posting