Cajun Mutt Press Featured Writer 07/06/20


It hit me hard.
I had to shit.
Real bad.
This one was brewing like no other. That probably isn’t true, I’d taken my fair share of mean
shits in my lifetime. But for the moment, it was true as anything.

The only bathroom in this pathetic place was a dirty cement room. I heaved the iron door open
after a few jiggles of the broken handle. It opened. Not easy, but it did. I slid in, the door closing
fast behind me.
Pitch black.
I felt around for a switch. Both sides of the wall, stepping in some liquid collected on the floor.
Nothing. I fumbled around some more, Nothing, no switch, and newly wet feet. Fuck. I gave up
on the switch hunt and turned on my flashlight. No switch to be seen, however an ancient
light fixture hung from the dilapidated ceiling.
What a cruel joke.

Ripping off my pants, I plopped my ass on that tiny dirty toilet and not a second too soon. The
shit came rushing out of me. It came in horrible liquified waves. As fucked as this bathroom was
I was incredibly thankful in that moment to have found it. I had left my flashlight on in the flurry
of shit pouring. Playing with it to pass the time waiting for the next wave to strike
The war of my colon.
A moth came to greet me in these troubled times. The sudden illumination must have been
beaconing in this horrible place, Elongated wings, beady eyes, hairy legs – the whole shebang.
It came out of nowhere. The fucker was huge. It scared the shit out of me, which in this situation
was literal and fortunate.
The second flank of shit fell from my asshole with grace, splashing shit water all over my ass
cheeks. The noise started the moth.
It scurried off.

What a foul creature to live in a place like this, just waiting for the next poor soul to shit with the
aid of a light.
What a foul creature I was to be part of its indulgence, it’s entertainment for the evening.
A moth to flame, an ass to toilet, a literal shit storm to water.
We had created our own little symbiotic relationship in that dark dirty cement room behind the
iron door.


©2020 J. Hol All rights reserved.

Screenshot 2020-07-06 at 11.17.23 AM

J. Hol is a shoestring traveling writer and artist from Providence, Rhode Island. His work primarily focuses on modern transient lifestyle, struggles with mental illness, and the humor of mundane directionless depravity.

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