Some might call it a fetish. Some might call it an obsession. For Mr Jennings it was neither. It was a reality, something that was as normal to him as not stepping on any of the cracks on the pavement walking to work, or knocking three times on any door before entering, or only wearing blue ties.
There was nothing special about the place, nothing made it more convenient or prettier or more comfortable in any way. It was just as it was. He did his business everyday @ 09h00 in the restroom at work, more specifically the one on the third floor facing south. Nothing more, nothing less.
Being a controlling accountant for a large corporate firm suited him perfectly. With a controlled regime of fibre intake he managed the five days a week, then skipping the weekend, very effectively. In his 17 years as a bachelor working for the firm he’s never taken leave. Never needed it. He was able to control the pressure of work. He did get away with a weekend here and there, and even stretched his ability to not “do it” for four days. In hindsight without proper planning it became rather unpleasant in the last hours of day four, resulting in his ass exploding @ 08h48 on the day he returned to work. He required counselling for slipping with the time.
We all know life’s a bitch, and then he met one. A condescending female version of himself, two peas in a pod, two sicko’s in an asylum, two people who liked one another irrespective of extremely odd behaviour. She despised green food, and couldn’t touch the colour red, she said. So they courted, then married. Too soon, me thinks.
For their honeymoon Mr Jennings knew he would be away for 7 days. He studied diets and became comfortable with the plans he made, to keep his regularity in check. The week was torturous for him, faking appreciation for normal situations of romance and site seeing. It took a turn for the worst when Mrs Jennings was caught fucking the twenty something, extremely buff lifeguard with the RED TRUNKS, behind Villa #6, which was a number he always hated.
He didn’t get excited, didn’t scream or shout or cursed. He controlled his emotions, accepted it for what it was and went home. It was actually a good thing as it was 2 days sooner than planned. He also accepted the fact that the plans he made to control his bowl was failing miserably, again. He needed the loo.
“Life must have hated Mr Jennings”, said one of his co-workers as the two orderlies in crisp white coats, carried him away in the body bag the following day.
No-one bothered telling him that there was a revamp in progress to the south-facing bathroom on the third floor of his office building. After battling profusely with the locked door without success, he just keeled over and died. Impressively, even in death he never lost control of his bowls.
But remember, trying to control too much shit, will just kill you eventually.