My How the Toilets Have Turned

As many of you know, I am a powerhouse farter and can easily hold my own from a shitting perspective. But lately, my place in the house hierarchy of shite has been unexpectedly downgraded. My wife, Jaime, has scatapulted herself into sole possession of first place, as she now sits alone on the throne and I don’t think I can ever reclaim my place.

I don’t know if this shit surge is a direct response to diet or if it’s attributable to global warming. Jaime has quickly gone from a once a week, single turd efficiency dumper to a full fledged Harlem Globetrotter mud thrower. Within minutes of eating anything, she’ll run for the toilet as if her turds will shoot through the plumbing to power Monstropolis as an energy efficient replacement of children’s screams. God forbid Sulley and Mike Wazowski mistake our bathroom door for our kids’ bedroom doors. They’d instantly trade Boo for a breath of fresh air to escape that portal potty to hell.
If you had told me at any point in our relationship that I’d be the second place shitter in our family, I would have immediately call the crisis hotline and had you evaluated by a mental health professional. How could this have happened? I eat like a morbidly obese death row inmate inhaling a last meal so cheese-heavy that it will likely stop his heart before the potassium chloride in his lethal injection will. Has years of self-induced diarrhea been for naught? What even is this life for?
Sadly, I’m left with no choice but to put my foot on the gas and eat whatever it takes to once again become King Caca. At this point, I’d even consider eating healthy if it lead to bragging and gagging rights. Honestly, though, I think Jaime has become so drunk with poop power that she may never relinquish the toilet title. I never thought I’d see the day where I’d be standing in the upstairs hallway, staring through an open doorway, taunted by the eyes of my seated successor, yet here I am. As I stare at her on the toilet, I feel like Georgie from It, gazing into the eyes of Pennywise, realizing I am powerless against this manure monster taunting me with the frightening fecal fact that, “They all float down here.”
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