Alright, I know these are starting to get a bit tangential, but after garnering a good degree of disquiet about the way that things have panned out, and subsequently deliberating the disquiet with a counterpart, I feel all the more convinced that this rather dirty situation needs to be brought beneath the cleansing light of literary exposure.
Traveling to another part of the world can have a profound effect on your body. On a plane, you’re somewhat rapidly removed from the comfortable and familiar elements that you know at home, and forced to biologically adapt to whatever new elements you expose your body to upon landing. In the example of this essay, food. And I understand that some individuals adapt quite more quickly and efficiently than others. We all have different tastes and different make-ups, mentally and physically. And eating food in different parts of the world exposes you to different kinds of bacteria, that you’re immune system isn’t used to fighting. The locals can eat it and drink it, because they’ve built that immunity. And eventually you will to. It just might take a few waves of watery asshole to build it. You know, often a few bouts of that mucousy, brown/yellow, intestinal phlegm that burns on it’s way through you. It sucks, I know. I once drank the water in Mexico when I was a kid. And I once over-indulged on carne asada and disco dust in college. You can’t help how your body reacts. What you can do however, is help how you react to aforementioned reaction. And sometimes the way you deal with the sick, is far sicker than the sick itself.
My thoughts and condolences go out to the innocent towels tragically tainted near the taint in this fiasco...
And our story begins...
*By the way, if you are reading this on your lunch break you might want to pull a trash can up close to you. And if you’re a bulimic, cheers, you might be able to spare the finger or the other end of the tooth brush on this one. Granted, it’s far from Palahniuk or Tucker Max in a hotel room, but it might be enough to pull your lunch lasagna back from it’s gastric grip.
*In addition, the name has been changed to protect the guilty. The ASSailant will take on a series of monikers throughout this monologue. We’ll start with the Brown Bombardier.
ACT I
The Brown Bombardier finds himself in a situation I’m sure we’ve all found ourselves in before. He hastily hauls his hole to the toilet, knocking down anything in his way. He’s desperate not to make a mess in the public arena. That Pad Thai isn’t sitting well. In fact, it’s trying to run through him faster than he can run to sanctuary. Butt, he makes it there. Unfortunately, the relief is brief. He’s lost his guts and toilet paper is nowhere to be found. Problematic? Yes, but far from disastrous at this point, as he has a couple of options open to him. Option one, the shower directly next to him. A bit dirty indeed, but not a horrible out. Just shower off the shame. Option two, a simple request to the roommate on the other side of the door for more toilet paper from the hotel lobby. Probably the most rational option available, I think I’d go with two. Instead, our Towel Tagger immediately requests permission from said roommate to ‘use’ his towel. The roommate, hip to the poopy hoopla going on in the toilet, emphatically protests in a ‘Brad Pitt-At The End of Seven, “What’s In The Box!?”-esque’ fashion.
“Nah, nah! Not on the towel. What’s on the towel!?”
But, the Mud Marauder follows through, and makes his first bowel towel out of a million little fibers.
He finishes his wipe job, steps out of Browned Zero into the bedroom, and apologizes. A shocking attempt to remedy the situation... Whatever, we’ll let it slide and leave that turd trail where it belongs. Behind us.
ACT II
Now, I suppose I should preface ACT II with an important bit of information. It’s been part of my--and I assume most other’s--inherent code of hygiene conduct, that outside of the realm of extreme circumstances--i.e.> extreme poverty, or the article in question is say, an extremely expensive piece of clothing or sentimental heirloom--like the stuffed Snoopy my brother at age two made a Poopy Snoopy--or you have ebola and can’t physically remove your shit shorts from your body--that any article of cloth shat upon is either immediately thrown away, or into the washer accompanied by a vat of bleach. That being said, you may well guess that such was not the case with our fallen fiber friend...
For roughly two days, I walked in and out of our hotel room multiple times, bypassing, with little scrutiny, the white towel twisted into itself that hung over the railing on the balcony. The railing next to the table and chairs. The table and chairs which we, and other guests to our balcony, occupied during those two days. Little did I know that in that towel, twisted up like a Tootsie Roll wrapper, lay something quite similar... I felt cheated...
At this point, during a solitary stand on those steps just below that balcony, our Caped Poosader, makes the ill-advised motion of gambling on a fart. Hardly a wise move, considering the odds opposed by your already grumbling gut, and your tract record... Shame you weren’t at the craps table... Either way, he loses soft and heavy on those steps. Shattered once again, and with his pants a bit tighter in the back, he stands--now carefully--to do something about the mess he made. There is no one around. He looks to his surroundings, and upon that balcony, limp and shamed, like a rag-doll whipping boy, sorrowfully hangs that towel in the breeze. Something tells me that towel knows what it’s like to date Ann Coulter...
Poocasso steals his canv-ass once again, away to the toilet. To continue his Brown Period. His confreres find it far less aesthetically appealing than his Blue Period, and nearly offensive in juxtaposition to his Rose Period.
My counterpart and I are later informed about the mis-crap. Boo... Shocked and disconcerted at the dark information brought to light, and the fact that the towel was placed back to its railing of shame, we emphatically demand that it be removed. It isn’t... Real fucking uncool...
ACT II.5 Just awful...
Three moons past the first filthy episode, Shitlocke Holmes and I try to sleep in our stuffy hotel room. He’s attempting to unravel the mystery of an obnoxious sound resonating from an undisclosed location. The air-con is exhausting itself to cool the room, and sweating up a storm in it’s efforts. It’s leaking from one end. Steady drip/drops spatter onto the tile floor, and echo throughout the air. I let him rustle about.
“I’m going to fix this. I can’t sleep with that sound.”
“Go for it,” I say lazily.
He’s gets it figured out standing beneath the air-con, and starts to make his way outside. My eyes tear open with a slight understanding as to how he plans to “fix” the problem.
No way he’s going to do that. No way!
Way...
He walks in with the towel in hand. It looks like it may have just had the worst week ever. A soggy remnant of a happy soldier once suited for beaches and fresh showers, now suited for German Shyster films. I jump up in protest.
“No fucking way, Dude! That thing is not coming in here.”
“Dude, don’t be a pussy, it’s just to stop that noise.”
“Well, then go to the lobby and ask for another towel. I’ll be damned if that thing comes back in here! That’s fucking sick, Man. That’s sick!”
“It’s just going to soak up that water that’s leaking”
“Yeah, and whatever colon custard it already soaked up from your mucky mud-cutter is going to disperse all over the place. And we’re going have to wade through your waste water just to get anywhere in the room! You want to do that shit in your own place on your own time, fine. But you keep your butt mustard out of this picnic, sir!”
“Fine...” He concedes. He carries the towel back outside and returns to his bed, unappeased.
I close my eyes once again and try to think of finer things to put me to sleep. Steve Winwood’s to be exact...
No joke, he then farts. And laughs. I wince. I’m almost brought to tears thinking about the possible, explosive out-come in his doing so.
Farting used to be funny...
ACT III
The three of us find ourselves in another hotel room, in another city, same Thai country. My counterpart and I at this point, now removed from the shituation, feel a bit more comfortable, if not obliged to openly confront Colon Towell, about it all. The events that unfold in the fashion that they do, are hardly embellished. This fucking story wrote itself before our eyes, long before I could even take a pen to this paper.
“Alright, Man, what’s with you and mud marking the towels?” I start off.
“Yeah, what the fuck, Bro?” Follows the other half of the prosecution.
“Dude, I got sick!” The defense declares.
“Yeah, Man. We’ve all been sick! But I’ve never puked into an airplane barf bag, and left it sitting on my porch until further use. And what the fuck did that towel ever do to you to deserve that in the first place?” I continue.
“And really, with the whole air-con/balcony thing?” The other half of the prosecution interjects with a laugh. I bend over to pick up a few things from the floor as they carry on. I think cleaning the room was a subconscious effort with ulterior motives.
A sock, throw it on the backpack. A t-shirt, throw it on the other backpack. A towel, throw it on the--”What the Fuck!?”
I can’t fucking believe it. Even in the midst of all the turd talk, a big carmel/chocolate chalk mark stares directly into my face from the towel in my hand, it almost looks as alarmed as I am. It looks like Edvard Munch’s The Scream painting if it were made from...uh, well, shit. I gag on it’s intrusive, spicy breath.
I toss another fallen fiber friend to the ground, and the prosecution goes into an uproar.
“Dude, what is that!? It smells like prison dick in here now!” My eyes begin to water.
“I must have stepped in mud or something...” An alarmed and reluctant reply.
“Mud my nuts! You’re on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator. The only way you’re going to cart that much mud up here, is if you’re packing it like a drug mule!” I retort.
“Are you banned from Bed, Bath, and Beyond?” casually continues the prosecution. I can’t help but laugh.
“You guys are dicks...” argues the defense.
“Yo! Adolf Shitler! You can’t just go through life pooping on every towel that crosses you! This isn’t ‘Nam.”
“You know how many poor Thai, house-keeping ladies are probably vomiting now as they unwrap your poopy presents!? You, Sir, are a dick.”
“You’re like a sick villain who leaves a calling card.”
“Batman would have to fight you with latex gloves and a surgical mask.”
“Fuck you, guys!” The defense shouts as he storms from the room in degradation.
“Dude, we’ll stop giving you shit when you stop giving it to towels! They deserve better!”
And so the prosecution carried on in this fashion for at least half a day. Supposedly, the recommended dose to put a halt to the Towel-ocaust. As far as we knew, no more cotton companions were laid to waste. And we can only hope that it stays that way. Either that, or he just got better at hiding it. Regardless, be wary. For those of you who now this Fiber Fudger, have had him in your house, and openly allow him to make a deposit in The Bank of Brown there, make sure to hire extra security. Hide your daughters, hide your wives, and hide your towels... Or hose down the towels in pepper spray, maybe that lesson will stick.
And to the Brown Bombardier himself, sorry, it had to be told. I still love you. Even though that was totally fucking disgusting...
