My dad would take marathon dumps.  The man would literally read on the toilet.  I’m not talking about Car and Driver or Reader’s Digest, I mean Lord of the Rings.  Sometimes he’d literally be there for an hour, not moving. You’d think the man would have learned to hydrate or eat less cheese or something, but no.

Anyway, when I was little, our house effectively only had one bathroom as far as I was concerned.  There was one in the laundry room in the basement, but I rarely went down there by myself when I was very small.  Also, the basement was so far away to a four year old’s mind.

One day, as my dad sat on the john taking one of his all-afternoon dookies, I complained that I had to pee really bad.  My dad told me I’d have to wait.  I paced the hall… I found mom and complained… I paced the hall some more… Finally, in a panic and not knowing what else to do, I ran into the bathroom pulling my pants down and heading in the general direction of the toilet, where my dad was still sitting.  I am sure I didn’t have a plan in my head at all. Acting out of sheer panic reflex behavior, I got in the vicinity of the toilet and peed directly on my dad’s right knee.

He was furious.  In a fit of absolute rage, he yelled at me as he unfurled half a roll of toilet paper to wipe his leg.  He yelled at me some more as he wiped the floor and then started yelling to my mom that I’d peed on him.  He yelled for probably ten or fifteen minutes, until he was red faced and his voice started going hoarse.  But you know what?  He still didn’t get off the damned toilet.

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