My face morphed into Marty Feldman’s. My teeth were disintegrating into powder. All illuminations were centered inward, directing multitudes of pupil expansions and retractions. I experienced twenty minutes of hysterical laughter (actually five) when a fellow journey woman threw on my high-heeled, solid brown leather pimp shoes. Her feet were dancing and tapping together as her toothy grin spoke those precious words: "There's no place like home.” Ahhhh, sure. Is that where I am?
My bowels began their dance. After a few minutes of bowel bacteria wrestling, the referee stepped in. How will I proceed this time?
I walk into the bathroom and shut the door. I pull down my jeans, take a comfortable sitting position on the toilet, and try to remove my mind. My surroundings are breathing, my ass is numb, and all I want is a quick expulsion and a few wipes for finish. My mind sets the pace through chanting.
”Move and bail quickly, move and bail quickly, move and bail quickly.”
I panic. After the first gentle push, the bowel movement starts a domino effect in my second brain. The guts got me by the short side, with adrenaline levels out in front. It's a showdown of mind over matter, but I can't help looking down on the tight mesh of linoleum patterns. I can see China, the Tin Man, the Scarecrow, the Cowardly Lion, and Gene Wilder as Young Frankenstein. Terri Garr will have to sit this one out, but Madeline Kahn can stay.
Marty Feldman sitting on a toilet, stoned. Concentrate. I can't. My panic pushes the poop back up. The feeling of poop travel takes a snapshot. Now I start to giggle and giggle. Marty's smile, my road to China, and a failed poo attempt become a triad of deepness in thought.
I can't shit! It's too fucking weird.
A formula soon develops. The neurotransmissions are helping, but my giggles are louder and louder, so it seems. I suddenly tune into my breathing. Not good.
Relax, Dear ol' boy. Concentration = remembrance = relax.
I concentrate on remembering how to relax so I can pass this mass out of my ass. It is the only way out of here.
My next attempt is better. A sense of calm prevails and the feed is finally in the bowl. I don't look. Never do you look. Never do you multi-whiff the produced aroma. You wipe quickly and quickly progress toward the next protocol.
The flush is now behind me, and as I stand, hunchbacked. Quasimodo’s next move is in front of the bathroom mirror. I open up the faucet, lather my hands, and start making triumphant faces in the mirror. The giggles come back. I give heed to the wise.
Don’t face your face too long. Mirrors are tricky. Bail Now!
With all roads leading to China via The Yellow Brick Road toward Young Frankenstein's laboratory, I can now open the door; I turn off the lights before I open it. The reverse protocol leaves me in semi-dark, for the little rose night light creates a darker palate for the mirror. I take another look into the mirror with the face of Marty, but Marty is gone. Jimmy Durante now takes over. And while I turned the door knob slowly to exit, his image says the last words into the mirror—a quick farewell to poo that exited my ass into its next phase. “Inka, dinka doo, a dinka dee, a dinka doo ... Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, wherever you are.”