Guided Meditation Based On The Minion

[atroposRandom]

Picture yourself being arrested in a small town for a DUI shortly after a business-trip dinner. The undersized police station has only two open, iron-bar cells into which to place you. You are placed into your cell and begin to question several of the decisions which, rightly or wrongly, have placed you into this situation. Shortly after your arrival, an angry, six-foot two-inch muscular Swedish priest, looking very much like the man who once beat an overconfident Apollo Creed to death under the watchful eyes of James Brown, is placed into the cell beside you. The guard sits in a awkward wooden chair and proceeds to fall asleep.

Leaning your forehead against the bars and continuing to contemplate the happenings of the last two hours, you suddenly realize that the discount fish tacos and two-dollar margaritas are disagreeing intensely with your gastrointestinal tract. You look behind you to spot the toilet in your cell. There are no barriers. There is no toilet paper. There is no other option.

You back into the naked, plumbed-in throne, rapidly pulling your trousers and underpants down your skinny, trembling shanks. The cold surface upon which you place your buttocks is an oddly soothing reminder about the uncomfortable relief you are about to feel.

The exiting mass hits the water and announces to the massive priest in the next-door cell that you are about to add disgustingly human sounds and smells to his experience within this seemingly too tiny jail.

As cabbage, corn, and fried, rotting fish flesh, piles into the water below you, fetid air also gushes from you in tiny, disgusting trumpets of success. In the distance, machine gun fire and screams begins to echo off the walls of the police station. The guard remains asleep.

You face the realization that you are, in this instant, trapped in an open cell without cover or exit, whilst flatulence, discount margaritas, and a strange form of salsa violently discharge themselves from that most delicate of lower openings.

It is in this moment that you must choose surrender. There is nothing more you can do. It seems exceedingly possible that your life may end here. You must accept that as an abhorrent mess piles inches below you, the toilet is your only friend. You may be shot and slowly bleed to death while your wrinkled britches encircle your ankles, yet the toilet will remain steadfast below you, hiding from sight your contemptible decisions.

As the priest angrily pulls the jail guard into the bars of his cell freeing only himself, you carefully consider your situation. Though you may very well die here, an atrociously foul and revolting odor surrounding you, you have made the best of your situation. No amount of fighting or crying can save you from this experience.

You find that a smile and, yes, even a giggle has come to your lips as you accept your fate as Toilet Guy, the only comic relief in this 1999 straight-to-video VHS release.