You sit on the toilet for a moment after relieving yourself of your solid waste, staring in disbelief at the handwritten sign left by the owner of the beach side condo you’ve rented. Do they really expect you to wipe your ass and drop it in the trashcan? Do they want you to just go ahead and shit in the sink so you don’t clog the toilet?
This was not in the brochure.
Against your conscious will your mind races through images of the potential future of your week’s vacation. Shit-stained toilet paper fills up the trash can and spills onto the floor. The poo-covered two-ply crawls up the walls and hangs from the ceilings. Eventually, the fecal paper gains sentience and tries to communicate. It sends you coded messages in a filthy, stench-ridden language not of this world. Eventually you are able to decipher its words.
“You’re gross, flush your ass-paper,” it says.
Fuck it, you’ll just shit in the ocean.