The Battle

One morning, I was engaged in a pleasant breakfast at a fancy, schmancy restaurant accompanied by my three favorite people: me, myself and I. In the midst of enjoying one of the most glutonous of meals (i.e. maple syrup on errything), I felt a familiar rumbling in my stomach. And so I paused, got up, and strolled to the bathroom where I planned to poo for the sake of pooing itself. A rarity for the world's foremost poo deployer.

And so I settled into one of three stalls enclosed in the marble-everything washroom, where I was serenaded by the sweet, hushed sounds of Kenny G's iconic soprano saxophone and the intermittent toots that accompanied my steamy shits.

At the moment, nothing could disturb this most tranquil experience bringing me immeasurable joy. Embellished by the fact I was able to enjoy all the pleasures myself. And so you could understand why my blood boiled when I heard footsteps approach, the adjascent stall door open, and another being settling down on the porcelain throne. This travesty would not stand.

So I did what I've done in similar situations of the past: prompt a game of Battle Shits. For those who've not viewed Harold and Kumar Go To Whitecastle- hailed as the greatest movie of all time by the most reputable of critics, me- one of the most memorable scenes in the movie features two blonde, British bombshells, competing for the most explosive noise/production combo in adjascent stalls. They dubbed this game Battle Shits.

Historically, when I've attempted to initiate this game, I recieve a polite refusal. And after incessantly badgering the victim thereafter, they usually can't take it and leave before they have a chance to deploy. But this bastard threw me for a loop. When I prompted the game, he responded, "Fuck yeah I'll play! I loved that scene in Harold and Kumar. It was the first time I laughed and splooged at the same time." Stunned, I pondered my next move while he struggled to rip ass. Fuggin' Nube.

I had to take things to the next level. So I grabbed an ample supply of toilet paper, took a shit in it, wrapped it and gracefully lobbed it over. Instant gratification overwhelmed me when I heard it land on the flesh of his balding head.

"We play hardcore 'round here mu'fuckah!" I yelled, relishing in my almost certain victory. Once I said this, there was a long pause. Then, a moan that grew louder and louder, followed by sobs and excruciatingly loud wails. He slowly got up and hobbled out of there muttering between heaves of sadness. Before he reached the door, however, I wanted to make sure he knew how little sympathy I had for him.

"Hey bitch!" I exclaimed. With the door half-opened, he paused and stood in momentary silence, bracing for my quib. "Don't hate the player, hate the game!" With that, he slammed the bathroom door and ran out of there crying like a little schoolgirl. Fuggin' Nube.